


Bleeding Drops of Red

by ExultedShores



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Daud to the rescue, Delilah turns Corvo and Emily to stone, Father Figures, For fuck's sake Daud, Gen, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Low Chaos Daud, Reunion, Time Travel, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-10-08 16:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10390443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: She’s stayed as long as she can, lingering just outside the docks of Dunwall, but when they send ships after her, she has no choice but to retreat. She holds out hope that her message has gotten to the Royal Protector and that he somehow managed to escape Delilah, but her hopes are smashed when she reads of the witch’s successful takeover of Dunwall Tower, and hears whispers of two new statutes adorning her throne room, the artworks bearing a striking resemblance to the dethroned Empress and her Royal Protector.The only hope she has now is to find another who is marked by the Outsider.Meagan Foster didn't arrive in time to get Corvo or Emily out of Dunwall, so she sets out to find the only other Marked One she knows of - Daud.





	1. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the endgame and just about the whole plot of Dishonored 2 right here in the first chapter, so viewer discretion and whatnot.

She’s stayed as long as she can, lingering just outside the docks of Dunwall, but when they send ships after her, she has no choice but to retreat. Sailing for the nearest port open to visitors, she holds out hope that her message has gotten to the Royal Protector and that he somehow managed to escape Delilah, able to come find her despite the overwhelming odds against him. He’s done it before, after all.

But her hopes are smashed when she reads of the witch’s successful takeover of Dunwall Tower, and hears whispers of two new statutes adorning her throne room, the artworks bearing a striking resemblance to the dethroned Empress and her Royal Protector. Meagan has seen enough of Delilah’s powers to know those statues are more lifelike than anyone can imagine.

She came too late.

Her left hand hurts when the realisation hits completely, a burning sensation building just underneath her skin. She hasn’t had access to her powers in years, not since Daud sent her away after her foolish, foolish betrayal. Though she’s missed transversing from one rooftop to another in the literal Blink of an eye, she never felt an itch for the Void, not like Galia had. She knows the loss of supernatural abilities was a small price to pay for what she did. Still, Meagan muses as she absentmindedly rubs the back of her hand against the sharp corner of her desk, she wishes she had her powers now. Maybe then she could do something, take on Delilah herself. But without her right arm or some help from the Outsider, she won’t last ten seconds against Delilah and her coven. She can’t do anything by herself.

Not for the first time since Sokolov was kidnapped, she finds tears appearing in her good eye, and she hastily wipes them away. Surely Anton would have known what to do, how they could proceed, but she allowed him to be taken from her, and that’s another thing she’ll have to live with. She has no time for sentiment.

The only hope she has now is to find another who is marked by the Outsider – one who’s willing to help her, at that. But Corvo is cast in cold marble, and Vera Moray perished years ago. Besides them, there is only one other she knows of who possesses the Mark, and she has been trying her hardest to find him for over a decade now. Even if she somehow manages to locate him, she knows Daud will not want anything to do with her, not after what she put him through. Besides, his debt to the Empress was settled when he saved her from Delilah the first time. There is no reason for him to help, and so there is no reason for her to go and find him.

But she does anyway, because Meagan cannot think of anyone else who could possibly stand a chance against Delilah, and because she can’t sit idly by while the world goes to shit. Not again.

She searches, not for the assassin she once knew, but for the person she believes he has become after years of repentance. Before, she always looked for the man whose blade has stilled a hundred hearts, whose gaze alone can make ones blood freeze in terror, who has the ability to bend time and space to his every whim. That’s how she remembers him; that’s the way she wanted to find him. But it isn’t about what she wants anymore. So now, she asks around for a man getting on in age, with a scar across his face where a nobleman with better training than expected had once landed a hit, who does not have a full set of teeth due to the influence of a corrupt bone charm.

She finds him before the end of the month.

He is tending to his grapes, his fingers moving more delicately than she’s ever seen them. Curious, how the same hands that could squeeze the life out of a grown man in less than a minute can handle a single grape without tearing its skin. Meagan just stands and watches him for a while, partly because she has to dig deep within herself to find the courage to face her old mentor, and partly because she isn’t even sure there’s anything left of her old mentor in the man before her.

When she eventually musters up the guile to approach, just after dusk has fallen, Daud addresses her without even turning around. “You still do your name honour, Lurk.”

He speaks casually, as if greeting an old friend, and Meagan finds her breath hitching in her throat. “Foster,” she eventually manages to get out. “It’s Meagan Foster, now.”

Daud lets out a grunt as he lifts the basket of grapes. “What do you want, Billie?”

No sentiment, no nonsense. This she can deal with. “I want your help. I _need_ your help.”

A snort, then. “What could you possibly need me for?”

He doesn’t know. Here, tucked away in the very corner of the Isles, creating a product that will sell no matter the state of the Empire, news simply doesn’t reach

“There’s been a coup d’état. Emily Kaldwin was overthrown,” she begins, watching his form stiffen before she’s even delivered the punchline, “by Delilah Copperspoon.”

He nearly drops the basket when he whips around to face her, his features set in stone. “How?”

And so she explains to him everything she can. She tells him of her travels with Sokolov, the things they discovered, the old man’s kidnapping, her failed attempt to make contact with Corvo. When she’s finished, Daud breathes deeply, and curses. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

He sets his basket down, Meagan now commanding his full attention. “How did she even escape?”

“I don’t know. That’s one of the things Sokolov and I were trying to figure out.”

“…Shit.”

She dares to touch his forearm, and though he flinches, he doesn’t pull away. “You’re the only one who stands a chance against her.”

“I’m old, Billie,” Daud mutters, and he is right. She can see it in the lines of his face, so many more there than when she last saw him. “I don’t know if I can keep up.”

“You can. You will.”

He sighs, and for a short, horrible moment, Meagan believes he will turn her down. Then he sets his shoulders and squares his jaw, looking every bit the master he used to be, and nods. “Give me an hour. I need to get affairs in order here.”

“Of course,” Meagan breathes, the relief in her voice more palpable than she’s comfortable with. “My ship is docked nearby. It’s called the _Dreadful Wale_.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

And then he’s gone, hauling his basket of grapes towards the well-lit warehouse close by. Watching him almost makes Meagan feel guilty – who is she to tear him away from this peaceful life he’s finally managed to build? But she had no choice. The guilt of coaxing Daud from his retirement, of having to face the consequences of her cowardly betrayal, is nothing compared to the guilt she would have felt had she let the Empire slip into chaos without lifting a finger. Unlike Daud, she still owes her debt to the Empress, twice over. If she can settle that debt by taking down Delilah, that would just be an added bonus.

She retreats to her ship and lets Daud say his goodbyes. She has no delusions of the both of them coming out of this alive; she’d be saying her goodbyes too, if she had anyone to say them to. Perhaps she can say them to Anton, if – _when_ , she tells herself – they find him alive.

Daud arrives two minutes past the hour he gave himself, and Meagan already has a snappy remark about wine and punctuality at the tip of her tongue, but her breath is stolen from her when she sees not Daud, viticulturist, but Daud, Whaler, walking through the door.

The deep red of his coat glimmers as though it has recently been coated in fresh blood, and Meagan can’t help but stare, memories of their time in the Flooded District rushing back as if it all happened just yesterday.

He notices, of course, and he shrugs. “Needed something that can properly hold some bone charms.”

She manages a weak smile. “Not the one that makes your teeth fall out, I hope?”

He shakes his head. “Got rid of that one years ago. Had the teeth replaced with silver. Of course, that was when silver was still affordable.”

“When Aramis still ran the mines,” Meagan says, sadly. Aramis Stilton is another she hopes she’ll get to say goodbye to, one day. “He disappeared a few years ago.”

“You knew him.” It isn’t a question, and she doesn’t answer it.

Instead, Daud takes some time to study the board on which she and Anton collected what little leads they had, with pictures of Delilah and Luca Abele earning their place in the centre. With his back turned like this, when she can’t see the lines of his face, it is almost as if he’s back in his office in Dunwall, planning their next assassination.

“So, where do we start?”

“Addermire Institute. I followed Sokolov’s abductor to the carriage station leading up to it,” Meagan states, strongly reminded of the first time she had been allowed to plan and run a mission for the Whalers by herself. It had ended disastrously. “I think the Crown Killer resides there – likely a patient of Hypatia, used by the Duke to spread seeds of doubt about Emily’s rule by making the people believe Corvo committed the murders in her name.”

“Assassinations with a calculated effect. Clever.” Coming from anyone else, it would have sounded like a compliment. “Get rid of the Crown Killer, save the old Natural Philosopher. Sounds simple enough. What’s the catch?”

Perceptive as ever, he is. “There’s a watchtower at Addermire; I can’t get my skiff anywhere near there without being blown up. And the carriage station is guarded better than Dunwall Tower itself. The Duke doesn’t want anyone going up there. Even if we manage to take the rails up to Addermire, trying to ride back afterwards will be suicide once they notice the carriage missing and call in reinforcements.”

He ponders this for all but a minute. “I’ll go with the carriage, take out the watchtower when I’m there. You can come get me afterwards.”

It’s simple, it’s brilliant, and it’s the worst idea she’s ever heard. “No! You can’t go in there by yourself!”

He turns, and even after all these years, his glare makes her shrink back. “Then what do you suggest, _Meagan_?” he bites out, emphasising her new name, her new identity, the fact that she’s not his second-in-command anymore.

Somehow, she finds her voice. “We can go together. I can – ”

“You can do _nothing_!”

She recoils as though he’s slapped her, and Daud inhales sharply to calm himself. “You’re missing your sword arm, and I don’t have faith in your aim without proper depth perception. And someone will have to steer the damn boat anyway.”

“You could renew our Arcane Bond, share your power with me,” she suggests, hopeful, desperate to finally be of use again.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust you.”

He states it calmly, matter-of-factly, and Meagan would have preferred it if he’d yelled. This detachment, it’s worse than anger, or resentment, or even hatred. But she deserves it, and that she knows. “Okay. Alright. We’ll do it your way.”

Daud gives a single nod before he turns to retreat. “We leave in the morning.”

“Daud,” she calls after him, not truly expecting him to halt and finding herself surprised when he does. She wants to tell him so much – how her life has been since she left Dunwall, how much she regrets what she did, how much she still cares for his wellbeing. But the words refuse to form themselves, so instead she asks “Why did you even agree to help me?”

“You asked nicely.”

The sarcasm wouldn’t even be lost on a two-year-old, and she scowls. “Daud.”

He sighs. “Because I still owe them a debt.”

“You saved Emily’s life – ”

“I took that of her mother. That’s a score I can never settle, not truly, but I’d like to try all the same.” His voice is quiet, yet firm. “Besides, Attano decided not to slit my throat when he had every opportunity and every reason to. I want that to have been the right choice.”

She is silent only because there’s a lump in her throat the size of an apple, and he leaves without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo this started as a simple question: why didn't Delilah turn both Corvo AND Emily to stone when she took over Dunwall Tower? It's not as if she can't petrify basically an entire army, so why not give herself some extra insurance? Because plot, I guess.
> 
> But it is the perfect way to insert some Daud into the very Daudless story of Dishonored 2, so I went with it. And it's a great opportunity to write some Meagan, because Meagan is my girl and I love her. Expect lots and lots of Meagan/Billie and Daud feels in coming chapters.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. II

When Meagan wakes at the crack of dawn, as she has every single day since she bought her ship, she finds Daud already up and about, pouring over a map of Addermire Institute. She isn’t surprised; he was always the first to rise, back when they were still assassins, even though he was also most often the last to turn in for the night. She asked him about it once, wondering if perhaps he had a bone charm that reduced his need for rest, and if she might borrow it sometimes. He had shaken his head, and simply told her that ‘sleep tired him’. She hadn’t understood him then, figured he didn’t want to share this particular charm, and hadn’t pressed the issue.

Now she knows what he meant. She always sleeps lightly, the slightest noise enough to jolt her awake, and when she does slumber, her dreams – nightmares, really – leave her exhausted. The subjects of her subconscious vary, but the past weeks have been an endless cycle of the same scenarios. Deirdre, dead as a doornail, the Empress, impaled by her blade, Anton, crying out for her as the Crown Killer tortures him. Daud, cursing her with every fibre of his being even as blood fills his mouth. She always wakes up with a silent scream on her lips, covered in sweat, sometimes mixed with tears. There are no exceptions.

Daud doesn’t look up from his map when she enters. “Breakfast’s over there.”

She hides a smile; pointing her to the nearest meal was always his way of telling her she was late, and to get a move on, but to fuel up first. The plate set for her is filled well enough – a Serkonan Plantain, two Serkonan blood sausages, and two pieces of toasted flatbread, covered with a grape jelly that looks as though he’s made it himself, considering she didn’t have any on board before. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Don’t ask questions you know the answer to.”

 That’s a ‘no’, then. Meagan can’t say she’s surprised. The magnitude of their quest alone is enough to keep a man from sleep; combined with the guilt, the distrust, and the simple fact that he isn’t a heavy sleeper to begin with, he likely won’t rest for days.

She lets him go over the Institute’s layout while she wolfs down her breakfast, marvelling at the jam he’s produced. Later, she notes to herself, when she’s not due to steer a boat past a watchtower, she ought to ask him for a taste of his wine.

She’s only just cleared her plate when Daud rolls up the map and tucks it into his coat. “Let’s go. I’d rather not be stuck on loony island after dark.”

Leading the way up to the deck, Meagan can’t help but quip. “Didn’t you spend a winter at the Academy?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s not on an island.”

She chuckles, but refrains from responding once they reach the skiff. Before, whenever they set out on an important assignment, Daud preferred absolute silence, communicating with predetermined hand signals and only allowing speech when absolutely necessary. Now, he isn’t in charge of her anymore, can’t order her to do anything. Yet she chooses to keep silent anyway, if only so she can occasionally sneak a glance at his face, seemingly relaxed but with such focused eyes, and be reminded of better times.

The skiff turns no heads when they land, those who live and work at the docks used to unidentified vessels coming and going as they please. Daud barely waits for her to cut off the engine before he disembarks. “Wait until dusk,” he tells her, already scanning the crowd with a practised eye. “I’ll have the watchtower disabled by then, and hopefully the Crown Killer too.”

“Alright,” she readily agrees. “Just… watch yourself at Addermire. The Crown Killer’s no joke.”

Daud smirks. “Neither am I.”

And he’s gone, weaving through the people crowding the docks and disappearing into an alley before they even realise he’s there. Meagan watches the red of his coat as long as she can, and wonders if she’s just sent the closest thing she’s ever had to family to his death.

* * *

It is only just past noon when the light of the watchtower in the distance begins to flicker before extinguishing completely. Meagan puts down the book she brought to entertain herself and watches, counting the minutes in her head. Likely the guards forgot to change the tank of whale oil last night, and the energy is spent. It usually takes them around ten minutes to get Sokolov’s machinery running again.

Fifteen minutes pass without the watchtower roaring back to life, and Meagan grabs her spyglass to try and see what’s going on. It can’t be Daud, she thinks as she fumbles with the device Anton ‘enhanced’, or, in her words, made unnecessarily complicated, before he was taken. Daud had told her dusk, and it isn’t dusk yet.

She’s too far away to see anything clearly, even with her spyglass, but the speck of red on the docks directly underneath the hulking tower is unmistakable. “Outsider’s balls,” she mutters to herself, unable to stop the grin spreading across her face. The Old Knife has some fight left in him still, it seems.

She sends her skiff full throttle towards Addermire, pulling up besides the red speck as quickly as she can. Still, Daud scowls at her. “About time.”

“Sorry,” she says, though the smile that still lingers on her face makes it sound rather insincere. “You’re early. I thought the watchtower just ran out of fuel.”

He clambers into the skiff. “There wasn’t much to do.”

It is then she registers that he is alone, and her smile disappears immediately. It can only mean one of two things: either Anton wasn’t at Addermire at all, or only his body was. “Did you find Sokolov?”

She’s both relieved and saddened when he shakes his head. “No. But I found the Crown Killer,” Daud says, and he immediately has her undivided attention. “It was Hypatia.”

“What?” Meagan gasps, eyes wide with disbelief. Had anyone other than Daud given her the news, she would have dismissed them without a second thought. “But she’s… how?”

His expression darkens. “She was trying to create a serum to help the miners with their respiratory problems. She tested it on herself, but it caused severe mental strain. The Duke,” he spits out the title as if it’s a curse, “tricked her into taking more doses. It changed her.”

She struggles to take in the bizarre information. “So she’s dead?”

To her astonishment, he shakes his head again. “There was an antidote, so she’s alive.” He looks out over the endless ocean, as if he can see its edge in the distance. “If she remembers the murders, she’ll have to deal with that.”

“Just like we do.”

“Yeah. Just like we do.”

* * *

Daud retreats to his room when they return to the _Wale_ , obviously exhausted from the day’s activities but trying not to show it. He must still remember what happened the last time he dared to be vulnerable around her.

She lets him rest and drives her skiff back to the docks. They could make do with their current supplies for a few days yet, but Meagan doesn’t know when she’ll get the chance to visit a market again, and she likes to be prepared. Besides, it takes her mind off things. Standing on the deck of her ship and staring at the gigantic structure people have taken to calling the Clockwork Mansion gets old far too soon.

Still, the fact that Anton has been placed with a fellow Natural Philosopher gives her hope of his survival. He is Anton Sokolov, former Royal Physician, Head of the Academy of Natural Philosophy. If Jindosh needed help with anything, of course he’d go to the most brilliant mind the Empire of the Isles has ever produced. As long as Anton hasn’t given in to his demands – which Meagan doesn’t question for a second, the stubborn old coot – and as long as Jindosh hasn’t grown tired of him, he could still be alive. He has to be alive.

She shops for food and a few spare parts in case her _Wale_ malfunctions, and debates paying a visit to the black market to get something nice for Daud, but refrains. They only sell lethal weaponry there anyway, and the former assassin has made it very clear that he will not kill, not for her, and not for Emily Kaldwin. The Empress was truly his last.

Meagan has just about gathered everything she needs when a small voice calls out to her. “Excuse me.”

She turns to find a rather dishevelled Alexandria Hypatia standing before her, a travel bag in hand and an uncertain smile on her lips. “You’re Miss Foster, correct? The ship captain?”

Of course she remembers Meagan. It isn’t every day you get to cut off an arm and poke out an eye to save a life, after all. “Yeah, that’s me. What do you need?”

She glances around as if she’s afraid someone will physically drag her away at any second. “I need a place to stay for a while,” she eventually says in a hushed whisper. “Could I possibly book a cabin on your ship? It’ll be just for a few days, I promise.”

That’s not a question Meagan expected. “I’ll be leaving today. Heading to another port. I don’t know when I’ll be back here, and I can’t change my schedule to accommodate you.”

“That’s fine. It doesn’t matter where we go.” Hypatia’s answer takes Meagan by surprise yet again. “I don’t… I can’t stay here. I have to get away. I – The man in the red coat is with you, isn’t he? He… did something. Helped me, I think. I need… to clear my head, and I just – I can’t stay at Addermire.”

Despite herself, Meagan can’t help but sympathise with the doctor. Hypatia is one of the few truly decent people in Serkonos, and that is something worth protecting. Aramis would want her to help, surely.

“Alright, you can stay with us. But anything you hear on the ship stays on the ship, you understand?”

“Of course. You have my word.”

* * *

“ _Why_ is she here?”

The accusatory tone of his voice rubs her entirely the wrong way. “Because she asked nicely.”

“Don’t start with me,” he snaps back.

She snorts. “She did ask nicely. Needed a place to stay to gather her thoughts.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but she cuts him off. “And the last time I checked, this was still _my_ ship.”

That was the wrong thing to say, she knows it even before his face moulds back into the stony mask he has become so adapt at wearing, all traces of anger and annoyance swept away instantly. “Of course, Captain Foster.”

“Daud – ”

“No, you’re right,” he says, though he’s not meeting her eye. “Let’s not harbour any illusions here. I’m not in control of you. You aren’t Billie Lurk, and I’m not the Knife of Dunwall. We’re nothing but unfortunate allies sharing the same ship. _Your_ ship.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Isn’t it?” he sneers. “It should be. Because if you _are_ Billie Lurk, you should know that your judgement of character is severely lacking.”

It’s a low blow. Meagan finds it hard to imagine that just this morning, she thought him unchanged, shared quips with him on the way to their goal. The bitter old man in front of her seems alien to her now. “If you don’t like it, leave.”

He laughs, a mirthless, cruel sound. “And then what? You’ll take on Jindosh and his mechanical wonders by yourself?”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. “If I must, yes.”

“Going to save Sokolov like you saved Stilton? You’ll end up blind.”

That’s when she slaps him, striking so hard his face snaps sharply to the left. “Then I end up blind,” she hisses furiously, fighting back the tears her anger threatens to display. “At least then I know I did everything I could to try and help him, just like I tried my best to help Aramis. But you, you’ll have to live with the burden of not lifting a finger to help a defenceless old man when all it takes for you to reshape the very universe is a flick of your wrist.”

That’s also a low blow, but Daud doesn’t seem affected in the least. “I think I’ll live.”

And he leaves, the imprint of her hand visible on his cheek as he turns away from her. She waits until she can no longer hear his heavy steps on the metal floors before she slides down against the wall, buries her face in her hands, and weeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering the blatant fact that Dishonored could easily be renamed 'Daud's biggest screw-up', with the Knife of Dunwall becoming 'Daud screws up 2: the return of the screw-up (featuring Billie Lurk),' the Brigmore Witches 'Daud doesn't screw up for once' and then Dishonored 2 'Psych! Daud did screw up that last time,' it would be highly unrealistic if Daud didn't screw anything up in this fic, so here we are. ~~Meagan/Billie also fucked up but she's precious and she only did it like, once, okay~~
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. III

Ever since she met her Deirdre, she has never gone to sleep angry.

“You never know if you’ll both wake up,” she had said, her curly blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders as she enigmatically waved her hands about. “Always forgive. You don’t have to forget, but always forgive, because it might be the last chance you have to tell someone you’re sorry, or that you love them.”

She and Deirdre didn’t fight much, but whenever they did have a disagreement, they worked it through before falling asleep, even if it meant giving up their shelter for the night. And when her Deirdre was gone, needlessly killed by some dandy with a god complex, she kept up that tradition, for her. Even at her lowest, when the world had spit her out and she hated everyone and everything that drew breath, she calmed herself before she fell asleep, thinking of Deirdre and her radiant smile.

That night, she goes to bed angry.

What does it matter, anyway? Billie Lurk never went to sleep angry. Billie Lurk made that promise to pretty Deirdre. Billie Lurk is _gone_.

She is Meagan Foster, and she’ll do whatever she damn well pleases.

She’s pulled from her fretful dreams an hour before dawn, when the unmistakeable hum of an engine has her running to the deck just in time to see her skiff disappearing in the darkness.

She should feel angry, betrayed, but all she feels is unbearable sadness. Deirdre was right, she was always right. All she wants now is to have Daud back by her side, to tell him she’s sorry, and that she loves him. Because she is still Billie Lurk, no matter how much she tries to deny it, and Daud is like the father she never got to have.

But she went to bed angry, and now she’s paying the price.

She refuses to cry again, so she makes her way below deck and starts preparations for the day a little early, if only to give herself something to do. She cooks breakfast and eats not even half of it, sweeps the floors, sets a course, puts away the spare parts she bought yesterday in the maintenance room. When she’s finished, barely an hour has passed.

She slumps down at the table, staring hard at her evidence board. She’s set sail for Aventa, the closest place to the Clockwork Mansion where she can safely disembark, but without her smaller and faster skiff, the trip will take a few hours still.

Whatever will she do with herself until then?

As if answering her question, a steaming hot mug of something that smells far too flowery is set in front of her, and she looks up to find Hypatia standing over her, holding a mug of her own and wearing an expression of deep concern. “You seem troubled.”

“Understatement of the year,” she mutters darkly, pulling the cup of flower towards her. “What in the Void is this?”

“Oxrush tea,” the alchemist responds, taking a sip of the concoction as if to show it’s perfectly safe. “It helps against mental strain. I find it rather soothing.”

If she finds it soothing, with her mind bent and twisted this way and that, Meagan figures it’s worth a try, at least. She carefully nips at the scalding liquid, the warmth alone already easing some of the tension in her shoulders. Suddenly, she’s immensely glad she let Hypatia stay on the _Wale_. “Thank you.”

The smile she receives in return is much too bright for such a simple phrase, but she realises the doctor must have heard those words of gratitude every day for years until the Duke locked her away, and now she’s aching for them. So she returns the smile, however weakly, and quietly drinks her tea.

Hypatia lets her finish her drink. “Would you care to talk about it?”

Her first instinct is to say ‘no’. Her second instinct is to say ‘no’. Yet she would, in fact, care to talk about it, and if there’s ever a chance to prove that she is too a good judge of character, here it is.

“I had a… disagreement with your rescuer,” she begins, though carefully, because she isn’t sure Hypatia’s promise to keep whatever she heard on the _Wale_ to herself extends to the admission that Daud was once the Knife of Dunwall, and she was once his right hand. “He left.”

Hypatia’s smile fades. “Oh, that’s unfortunate. He was nice.”

Meagan fights the urge to roll her eyes at the irony. He would have thrown Hypatia overboard immediately if he’d had his way, but sure, he’s real nice. But she doesn’t dare tell this to the fragile woman who has only just began to pull herself together again, so she merely shrugs.

The doctor studies her quietly over the rim of her mug for a while. “You care a lot for him, don’t you?” she eventually asks, though she already knows the answer. “Were you close?”

 _Close_. The word doesn’t even begin to describe the relationship she used to have with Daud, so much like father and daughter, before she got foolhardy. “Yes.”

“Then he’ll be back.”

She says it with such certainty, such unbelievable optimism, and Meagan wants to scoff at her for her ignorance. But she doesn’t, because the words give her comfort, even if they’re untrue. “You think so?”

Hypatia nods. “I know so.”

She drains the last of her drink. “Would you like some more tea?”

Meagan looks at her empty mug, which somehow still smells like flowers. “Sure.”

* * *

Alexandria Hypatia should apply for a degree in psychology to compliment her doctorate in medicine. That is the first thought that comes to her mind when she rushes out to the deck late in the afternoon, a blade in hand and the doctor in question right on her heels.

For the motorized dinghy they heard clear as day just outside the _Wale_ does not belong to the Grand Guard, or a band of misguided pirates looking for easy pickings. It is her own, if not recognisable by the name of her ship painted on its side, then by its duo of occupants, one old, greying and frail, the other tall, lean and _red_.

It’s the colour that registers in her mind more than anything else, and then she’s running all over her ship, turning off the engine, dropping the anchor, hauling up the skiff with Hypatia and barking at her to go faster.

Anton is unconscious, bloodied and bruised, but so very alive that it makes her almost giddy. She helps Daud carry him inside, down to his old bedroom, Hypatia hurrying ahead of them to fetch her medical supplies. They make him as comfortable as they can, laying him down on the soft matrass while the good doctor arranges her equipment. When she’s ready to begin treatment, Hypatia shoos them out of the room with a surprisingly firm hand, asking only for peace while she does her job.

The door slams shut.

“Well, she bounced back quickly,” Daud grumbles discontentedly at the closed door.

Meagan ignores this. “You came back.”

“Yes.”

“You saved Anton.”

“Yes.”

“What about Jindosh?”

“Strapped him to a chair and sent a few thousand volts through his skull.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because it was the best way to get rid of him without chopping his head off.”

“Not that,” she shakes her head. “Why did you…”

She doesn’t even need to finish her sentence. “Guess I just couldn’t live with the burden of not lifting a finger to help a defenceless old man when all it takes for me to reshape the very universe is a flick of my wrist.”

She lets out a sound between a laugh and a sob, and Daud allows himself the tiniest of smiles. “Besides, you can hardly steer the boat if you’re blind.”

There’s no malice in his voice, so unlike yesterday, and his expression reminds Meagan of Deirdre whenever she made a vulgar joke, using the colourful vocabulary Billie had taught her, and somehow managing to look both proud and ashamed at once. The sight makes her heart ache.

“Daud, I – ”

“Don’t,” he says gruffly. He doesn’t want to hear her apologies, because the words alone don’t mean anything. Actions, not words, was what he always told her and her fellow assassin. That advice isn’t limited to hired murder; it goes for everything in life. Which is why he risked his neck to bring Sokolov back to her instead of simply telling her he regrets the fight they had last night.

And though she knows she’ll never quite be able to show just how much remorse she feels for everything that happened between them, she can make an effort. So she hugs him, a gesture he doesn’t reciprocate but doesn’t deprecate either, and she creates her best interpretation of his favourite Serkonan meal that evening – which he eats in its entirety, without complaints, even though the sausage is overcooked and the flatbread blackened.

It’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, because this and the next chapter were supposed to be one, but then I thought up a scene that just had to be added and became longer than I thought it would, so I decided to end the chapter here. Next chapter should be up very soon because of this, though, so yey?
> 
> Also, I ship Billie/Deirdre so much it's alarming, especially since Deirdre is never even seen in-game. My headcannon of her is this blonde-haired blue-eyed girl who lived a perfectly lovely, normal life before she and her family were involved in a carriage accident and only Deirdre made it out alive. She couldn't afford to keep her home and was cast out onto the streets, surviving only because seasoned street-rat Billie happened upon her. Cue instant love, of course. Damn, I ship them. So much. Did I mention I ship Billie/Deirdre? Because I do. Ship them, I mean. A lot.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. IV

She sleeps in Anton’s room the next few nights, and stays there as much as she can during the days as well. He wakes up periodically, sometimes mumbling something incomprehensible about his experiments, but more often than not yelling about clockwork and electricity, screaming obscenities at a Jindosh who isn’t there, and sobbing. It’s the sobbing that gets to her the most, the heartbreaking sound of a weathered soul who has been through far too much in his old age. She holds him while he cries, murmuring words of comfort, until he falls asleep again. She likes to think it helps.

She’s reading one of his books on Pandyssia when he wakes, truly wakes, for the first time. “Damn it,” he curses upon seeing Meagan, “I’m hallucinating again.”

She nearly drops her book in surprise before a delighted smile lights up her face, and she’s at his bedside in an instant. “You aren’t hallucinating, you old coot,” she says fondly.

“Sure, sure. Like I didn’t hallucinate the Knife of Dunwall himself fetching me from my prison,” he returns dryly, swatting at her hand as she tries to feel his forehead for signs of fever. “Besides, you don’t read.”

“I don’t read _much_ ,” she corrects, finally managing to touch his head, and finding it thankfully cool, “but I had to have something to do. Even listening to you cursing Jindosh in some very colourful ways gets old eventually.”

He grabs her hand as she retracts it from his forehead, and just stares at it for a while. Then he smiles, a tired, broken smile that makes her chest ache. “Meagan,” he whispers, his voice as tired as his smile, “it _is_ you.”

She squeezes his hand. “Yeah, old friend. It’s me.”

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says, sounding confident despite the choke in her voice. “I would have found you, Anton. No matter what.”

“I know,” he responds, patting their intertwined hands with his other absentmindedly. “I know.”

He falls silent, brow furrowed in concentration, still holding her hand between his own as though it is a lifeline. “Meagan?”

“Yes?”

“How did I get here, exactly? I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

“You weren’t hallucinating,” she says softly. “You were never hallucinating.”

His eyes widen. “The Knife of Dunwall,” he mutters, his voice a mixture between awe and disapproval. “I take it you didn’t make it to Corvo and Emily in time, then?”

She shakes her head. Her failure still stings. “Delilah turned them to stone.”

“Petrification? Of course. Even her supernatural abilities have an artistic flair to them,” he laments. He blames himself for Delilah’s deeds, wonders if he might have done something to keep her on the right path. Meagan knows from the time she spent with the witch’s coven that Delilah has never even walked the right path, and would probably just burn it down if she ever came across it. But Anton is an old soul with a plethora of regrets, and she lets him have them. It’s not like she doesn’t have her own.

 “Why did you go to _him_ for help, Meagan?” he asks then, and the scorn in his tone surprises her. “Why the Knife of Dunwall?”

“Who else could I have gone to?” she answers question with question, tentatively. She loves Anton like a grandfather, and he is aware of her hard past, her dealings with Delilah, even that she used to be a hired killer. But she’s never told him her real name, and so he doesn’t know she once ran with the Whalers, or that she was the girl who drove a deer-shaped ornament into the eye of Radanis Abele as deep as it would go.

“I suppose you’re right,” Anton relents, though his mouth is still set in that firm line that lets her know he’s upset. “There are no others. The Outsider picks his chosen carefully.”

“He’s not a bad person,” she says quietly, not daring to meet his eye. “Despite what he did, what he was, before… I think he’s changed.”

His expression softens, if only a little. “Well, we’ve all done things we’re not proud of. And I’d be dead if not for him, so the least I can do is give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Thank you, Anton,” she says, and she means it.

He sits up straighter, waving away her attempt to help him up. “So what’s happened while I was out of commission? How close are we to restoring the natural order of things?”

And so Meagan fills him in, beginning with the way Daud dealt with Jindosh (which brings a vindictive smile to his face that is just a tad _too_ cheerful) and working her way back to the dealings at Addermire Institute and the true identity of the Crown Killer.

“Poor girl,” he says when she’s finished, shaking his head. “I taught her myself, with Joplin, at the Academy. Incredible mind she has, absolutely brilliant. She could become Grand Inventor just like that if she sets her sights on it, but she was always more concerned with helping others.” He lets out a sigh that might have been described as wistful if his lungs had not rattled as much. “I swear, if I was twenty years younger...”

Meagan can’t help the chuckle that escapes her at the ridiculous image of the two of them together, which earns her a mischievous grin in return.

“It’s good to have you back, you old coot.”

* * *

Daud calls for an audience in the afternoon. Never mind that Anton is too weak to leave his room on his own, or that he coughs up blood when she helps him up, or that he collapses on the improvised couch underneath the evidence board and doesn’t wake for another two hours.

Daud wants an audience, and Anton refuses to show weakness by staying in bed. Stubborn bastards, the both of them.

When Anton wakes again, Daud wastes no time. “I need to know how to deal with Delilah.”

“Daud,” Meagan says, almost pleadingly, willing him to understand the extent of Anton’s suffering. “They tortured him. His body is covered with bruises.”

“I don’t need his body, I need his mind,” Daud counters, ever efficient.

Anton lets out a dry wheeze. “I’m afraid my mind isn’t of much use in this matter. I can make electricity move from one side of the room to another, but Delilah is beyond my understanding.”

Daud’s expression sours immediately, and that’s when Meagan knows he’s hiding something. “What did you learn?”

He stares at her for a few seconds, perhaps debating whether to trust her with the information, before he relents with a sigh. “I visited the Void last night.”

“So?” she asks, an eyebrow raised. It isn’t as though he hasn’t had a midnight rendezvous with the Outsider before.

He’s uncomfortable, she can tell, talking about the Void in front of Anton, who is closely following every word, his fascination with the Outsider clear as day. “The Void is changing,” he eventually says, an edge to his voice she’s rarely ever heard before. He’s upset. “It was Delilah who drew me in, not the Outsider. Her power is growing. She’s become immortal.”

“Immortal?” she asks, sceptical despite herself. She knows that the Outsider is real, that the Void is real, even if she’s never seen them, because Daud has told her they are, and she trusts his word, if not his supernatural abilities. But immortality… “Are you sure?”

He clenches his jaw like he always used to whenever she questioned his judgement. “She showed me the evening of her coup. Attano had his blade through her chest in an instant, and she just pulled it out like nothing happened.”

She asks her next question not because she doesn’t believe him, but because she wants it to be untrue. “Are you sure what she showed you was real?”

“Yes.”

The tired, dull tone of voice lets her know he means it, and she curses. “Void-dammit.”

Anton clears his throat. “I may not be able to unravel Delilah’s abilities myself, but I know who may be able to help, willingly or no,” he says. “Jindosh often had a visitor, Breanna Ashworth.”

“The curator for the Royal Conservatory?” Daud asks, but the horrid look on Meagan’s face wipes away any doubts he might have. “One of Delilah’s lieutenants.”

Meagan nods, as does Anton. “Ashworth is dangerous, as obsessed with the occult as Delilah,” he confirms. “Apparently, she’s working on a device called the Oraculum.”

“More witches,” Daud mutters as he looks over an article detailing the Conservatory’s recently extended closure. “Terrific.”

“You have experience with witches?” Anton asks, genuinely curious.

“I have experience with Delilah,” Daud says darkly. “I fought her years ago. Trapped her in the Void. I thought that would be the end of it.”

“Astounding!” gasps Anton, sitting up straighter to hear the tale. “A confrontation between two of the Outsider’s chosen. What pitted you against each other?”

Daud hesitates. “Oh, just humour him,” Meagan implores. “He won’t tell anyone. And it’s not like it’ll be hard to convince people he’s gone senile if he does.”

Anton looks somewhat affronted, but Daud is amused, she can tell from the ever so slight curl of his lips. “Fine,” he shrugs, and Anton forgets his pique almost immediately.

And so Daud tells the tale of how he saved Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin from a life as Delilah’s human puppet, from the moment the Outsider gave him a name all the way to the moment he trapped Delilah within her own painting of the Void. He talks of Bundry Rothwild, whom he questioned about a ship bearing Delilah’s name and then stuffed in a shipping crate bound for Tyvia. He mentions Arnold Timsh, the corrupt barrister who was ‘persuaded’ to help Delilah, and now spends his days in Coldridge because of Daud’s intervention. He discusses Lizzie Stride, the woman he busted out of Coldridge wearing an Overseer’s uniform, and her ship, the _Undine_ , not unlike the _Dreadful Wale_. He speaks of Brigmore Manor, wrecked by the witches’ influence, and details his bloodless defeat of Delilah Copperspoon.

Most hauntingly, he narrates the betrayal of Billie Lurk, his second-in-command, who plotted with Delilah to take him down and replace him as leader of the Whalers. He doesn’t mention Meagan, he doesn’t look at Meagan, and he tells the story so calmly, detachedly even, that she can almost pretend he’s talking about someone else.

“You didn’t kill her?” Anton asks when Daud is finished, and he is not asking about Delilah.

“No.”

“Why not? I understand you’ve retired from murder since the Empress, but I doubt anyone would have minded if you’d made an exception for her.”

“ _I_ would have minded,” Daud snaps back, a surprising amount of venom in his voice. “She bowed before me, offered me her blade. She entrusted me with her life. I could only forgive her.”

Because apologies are best said with actions, not words.

The realisation hits her like a batting ram, forcing all the air from her lungs. She turns away from them before the tears come, managing to choke out something vaguely comprehensible about preparing the skiff for departure, and flees from the mess hall.

On deck, she can hear the remainder of their conversation through the open porthole.

“You’re very forthcoming with information about your past. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“The Whalers have been disbanded for years. It won't do any harm. Besides, if you ever think it wise to relay this story to another living soul, it won’t be hard to convince them you’ve gone senile.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so Sokolov wasn't supposed to have such a big role in this story. He was supposed to just sorta be there, like he is in-game. Then I happened across [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=geThRGKuV6Q) and it just broke my heart and gave me a lot more insight into Meagan & Anton's relationship, so there will be lots more Sokolov now. I regret nothing.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. V

Hypatia wants to leave.

She tells Meagan as such when she is on deck fiddling with the skiff’s throttle, no longer straining to hear the conversation between Anton and Daud, who are currently discussing the latter’s brief period of study at the Academy of Natural Philosophy.

She’ll come with Meagan and Daud when they head for Cyria Gardens, home of the Royal Conservatory. She has a friend who lives in the district, a proper place to stay. And perhaps she can help Daud move past some of the Grand Guard by claiming he is her new assistant, what with Vasco’s untimely death at her own hands, if not her own mind. To top it off, it will save Meagan the costly fuel it would take to ferry Hypatia over separately.

It’s an excellent idea, and Meagan readily agrees, even though she fervently wishes she could spend the half-hour boat ride alone with Daud. Watching him, silently, as he mentally prepares for a takedown calms her, more than anything, because it lets her know that some things will never change.

With Hypatia on board, however, silence is not attainable.

She mutters endlessly about her work, mostly to herself, trying to fill the silence her other half left behind. She’s completely oblivious to the slight twitch of Daud’s eye. By the time Meagan docks the skiff at the edge of Cyria Gardens, Daud’s patience has dwindled to near nothing, and he all but snaps at the doctor to get a move on before he stalks away to scout the situation ahead.

Meagan, on her part, takes some time to properly bid Hypatia farewell. She knows she’ll likely never see the woman again after today.

She watches them leave together, Hypatia jogging to keep up with Daud’s long, purposeful strides, and she is reminded of the first time they took Thomas on a reconnaissance mission, back when the last leader of the Whalers was still a Novice Assassin. He, too, managed to talk away Daud’s tolerance, and they failed to get proper intel because his voice had carried too loudly over the walled courtyard of the noble they were stalking. He’d been on cleaning duty for weeks.

She briefly wonders whatever happened to him.

Meagan leaves her skiff behind, heading for the nearby black market to pick up some stun mines. Daud is running low, and since Anton managed to snatch a rather heavy pouch from Jindosh’ estate, she has some extra coin to spend.

The shopkeeper is unusually skittish, even for someone who runs an illegal underground emporium. It doesn’t take much prodding to get him talking about an associate who’s been missing for days. “Check on him if you’re headed that way?”

She’s not headed that way. She has to stay near the skiff for when Daud comes back; she can’t go mucking around a closed-off part of Karnaca just because the waiting around drives her absolutely mad. “I’ll think about it.”

She’s up on the rooftops not five minutes later.

* * *

Daud is not amused.

She found the shopkeeper’s associate – dead, of course – in the basement of the Conservatory, along with a note speaking of the priceless Roseburrow Prototype, crown jewel of the Roseburrow collection currently housed at Karnaca’s Royal Conservatory. It was too alluring to leave be. How could she have known the Prototype was protected by a state-of-the-art pressure-triggered alarm system?

Of course it alerted the witches. So many witches, swarming her, swords drawn. She only just saved herself from being cut in half by lobbing all of the stun mines she’d purchased at them at once. Then Daud was there, shooting darts from his wristbow and crushing windpipes, and they were surrounded by at least a dozen bodies, all miraculously still alive.

“What are you doing?” he asks casually.

“The shopkeeper was looking for this,” she explains, rather lamely, holding up the Prototype.

“The shopkeeper?”

“At the black market, downtown. I picked up some stun mines for you.”

He looks at the empty husks of once-charged mines among the bodies. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, only just refraining from adding ‘Master’ to the end of that sentence, for she feels so very young and foolish again. “I only thought… I don’t know what I thought. I just wanted to do something useful, for once.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly trying to keep from lecturing her as he would have in the old days, and that’s when she notices the glimmer of red on his upper arm that’s not just the sheen of his coat. “You’re bleeding.”

“I realise that.”

“Daud.”

He shoots her an annoyed look. “What do you want me to do about it? I don’t have time to bleed right now.”

He’s right, of course, but leaving a trail of red for Ashworth to follow won’t do, so Meagan uses one of the buckles that keep the mould around her stump in place as a tourniquet. He nods his thanks and leaves without another word.

She’s back in the basement, the Roseburrow Prototype tucked safely underneath her coat, when she feels the surge of power shudder through her bones, setting her every hair on end, and she shivers violently. It’s the Void, raw and unrestrained, and she feels the urge to transverse across the room stronger and more urgently than ever before, even though she knows she can’t. The feeling, the shiver, was exactly what she felt when her Arcane Bond with Daud was severed years past, and she knows Breanna Ashworth is no longer a witch.

Meagan almost feels sorry for her.

* * *

When he returns to the skiff, Meagan hands him a dozen stun mines, part of the shopkeeper’s reward for a job well done, if not too elegantly executed. The ingot she keeps herself; running a ship costs more than ever now that she has passengers, and Daud’s a cheapskate anyway.

“What took you so long?” she asks once they’re a safe distance away from the docks.

She’s taken aback by the smirk on his face, so very pleased and yet unhappy. “I had a little parley with Delilah.”

“ _What_?” she demands, knocking down the throttle in her haste to turn around, sending them flying across the water. “Delilah is _here_? In Karnaca? How?”

He shakes his head as he reaches for the throttle, slowing them down again. “She’s not here. Ashworth had one of those statues of her in her office.”

“Oh. Oh, of course.” She deflates, feeling slightly silly. “But why did you go out of your way to talk to her?”

“Because,” Daud’s voice is little more than a whisper, his eyes burning with an intensity she’s rarely seen before, “I want her to know that it’s _me_ who’s hunting her. That she hasn’t won, not yet. I want her to lay awake at night because of _me_ , I want her to feel that the thorn in her side is _me_. I want her to know she’ll meet her fate at _my_ hand, just like fifteen years ago. I want her to be _afraid_.”

“Fear makes people do crazy things,” Meagan mutters quietly. Another of Daud’s teachings.

“Precisely.”

“But that’s not it, is it? Not this time.”

He stares out at the water like he’s always prone to do whenever he needs to think. “No,” he says eventually. “It’s personal.”

“Because she also has the Mark?”

“No,” he says again. “Because she’s killing the Empire. Because she turned the Empress and her Protector to stone. Because she tried to invade the mind of a child. Because she sent Overseers into my territory. Because those Overseers took the lives of my men.”

He pointedly looks at the mass of the _Dreadful Wale_ in the distance. “Because she took away the person I cherished most.”

It takes her a moment to realise he’s talking about _her_ , and then she too fixates her gaze on the _Wale_. “You can’t give her all the blame for that. I had plenty to do with it myself.”

“Really now?”

“Wouldn’t feel so damn guilty otherwise.”

At this, a chuckle. “You sure that’s not because you helped murder an Empress? I’ve found that to be an excellent source of guilt.”

And then they’re laughing, almost hysterically, and she can finally look him in the eye without her stomach coiling around itself like the treacherous snake she was.

* * *

When they’re back on the ship, Meagan has made a decision.

Daud goes to his room, snatching an elixir, a bandage, and, most amusingly, a small sewing kit before retiring for the evening. She would have offered to help, but she knows he’ll decline, if not for his pride than for the conversation he knows she’s about to have.

She finds Anton up and about, drawing the lines of a new portrait – Daud, she can already tell even though the sketch is only half finished. The eyes are unmistakable.

“Anton,” she calls for him, “I need to have a word.”

He sets down his pencil. “If this is about that trinket I took from the engine room, I can assure you the ship will function perfectly well without it. My new device, however, cannot.”

“No, Anton, this isn’t – wait, what part did you take now? I _told_ you – ”

“Yes, yes, I know, I know. But just wait until you see what I’m using it for, you’ll forget you ever wanted it for anything else.”

“If what you’re working on wipes memories, maybe,” she snaps back, though it lacks bite. “Look, Anton, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

He recognises the serious tone of her voice, and he sits down. “What do you want to tell me, then?”

She takes the other chair. “Do you remember what I told you about my past?”

“Sure,” he says casually, as if everyone in the Isles has a memory as good as his. “Born in Gristol, raised on the streets, turned to assassination in your teens, had a run-in with Delilah years ago, lost your arm and eye to a Grand Guard when checking up on Aramis Stilton.”

He counts along on his fingers as he lists the events that make up most of her life until now. “Why?”

“There’s more.”

His eyebrows raise. “More? Dear girl, I daresay that’s enough for one person to go through. What more could there be?”

She begins small. “Meagan Foster isn’t my real name.”

“Yes, I’d thought as much. Wouldn’t do for a ship captain to be connected to murder.”

Of course he’s already figured that one out, bloody brilliant bastard that he is. So she ups the ante. “I wasn’t just a hired killer. I was with the Whalers.”

That _does_ surprise him. “You were one of Daud’s? Hm. Well, that explains why the two of you are so attuned to one another, I suppose. And now I know how you ran into Delilah.”

He still isn’t perturbed. “Yes, and no. My encounters with Delilah were… more extensive than Daud’s. We were looking for her, but she was the one who found me.”

“How?” he asks, leaning forward with that eagerness he always displays whenever anything Void-related comes up.

“I don’t know. Maybe Timsh tipped her off, maybe she saw us through one of those freak statues of hers. Maybe the Outsider gave her a name, too. All I know is that she came to me,” Meagan murmurs, “and she said she could see my ambition, my desire for power. She told me she could give me abilities beyond anything Daud could ever offer, that I could – should – take his place. And I believed her.”

Anton’s eyes have gotten as wide as saucers now. “Billie Lurk,” he whispers her name. “You were that girl... you were the one who murdered Radanis too, weren’t you?”

She nods, trying to look at anything besides the anguish on her old friend’s face. “He was my first, actually. His brother goaded him into hitting my... my Deirdre, my everything, with an iron pipe. She died, and I just...”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but he understands all too well. “And Daud?” he asks after a long pause. “Why did you turn on him?”

“Because I was an idiot,” she says bluntly. “After the death of the Empress, he grew withdrawn. Didn’t take many contracts, left most of the work up to me and Thomas. We always had this unspoken agreement between ourselves that I would take over leadership of the Whalers when he wasn’t fit to anymore. I thought it was my moment. I thought he’d gotten weak, and when Delilah made that offer... I couldn’t resist.”

She looks him in the eye, now, knowing she deserves every bit of scorn and disapproval in his gaze. “I was wrong. He hadn’t gotten weak. He’d grown stronger. Ever since he killed the Empress, he wanted to make amends, wanted to be _better_. He understood the consequences of his actions, of our actions. I didn’t, not then, and I fucked up worse than I ever had before and hopefully ever will again.”

They are silent for a long time. “Why did you tell me this, Meagan?”

“Because I wanted to,” she says firmly. “You deserve the truth.”

He scrutinises her. “And what is the truth? Meagan, or Billie?”

“Both.”

He cracks a smile at that, even if it’s small. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course.”

“So, when’s dinner?”

She fixes him with an incredulous stare.

“What? A man has to eat, you know.”

“I thought you’d at least give me some sort of lecture.”

His bark of laughter quickly turns into a hacking cough. “What for?” he asks when he’s caught his breath again. “You’ve been nothing but kind to an old man since we met. You may not have a clean past, but if all of those experiences helped make you into who you are today, I have no reason to complain.”

Stunned and immensely touched, she envelops him in the tightest one-armed hug she can manage, blinking back tears of gratitude. “Thank you, Anton.”

He pats her on the back gently, wheezing slightly for the sheer force of her embrace. When she finally pulls back, grinning from ear to ear, he says: “You still haven’t answered my question, though.”

Her smile falters. “Which question?”

“When’s dinner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for more Sokolov! He's hijacking the story, but I love him anyway. Also yey for Meagan finally getting to do something besides playing boatman? I mean she _is_ a badass former assassin, and she could have done probably half of the shit in-game evem without powers, her right arm or her depth perception anyway, so here's some Meagan being not-so-badass-but-somewhat-useful-at-least.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	6. VI

“I’d like you to come with me today.”

Meagan nearly chokes on her tea. “You want – really?”

He is examining the now well-filled evidence board, his back turned towards her, but she can see that his shoulders are tense. “I do. That is, if you want to.”

“Yes!” she says, just a tad too eagerly, and she tries to cover it up with a cough. “Yes, of course.”

His shoulders sag. “Good. That’s good,” he breathes. “I haven’t been to the Batista District in years now. I could use your insight.”

Meagan is very, very glad she decided to scout the area surrounding Aramis’ house the past two days while they waited for Daud’s arm to heal.

“It’s called the Dust District these days, for obvious reasons,” she says, rising from her seat to stand beside him. “The place is a warzone, divided between the Overseers and the Howlers, both out for the other’s blood. The Abbey’s men are led by a Vice Overseer named Byrne, and they turned an old mining building into their outpost here,” she draws a circle on their map, “and Paolo’s Howlers are based in the Crone’s Hand Saloon here.” Another circle.

“And we’ll need to ‘persuade’ one of them to help us get into Stilton’s.”

“Yes. There’s no way to get past that lock Jindosh designed otherwise. Unless your winter at the Academy taught you enough to solve the damn riddle.”

“Afraid not.”

“Figures. What _did_ you learn there, if anything?”

“About a dozen different ways to properly poison someone.”

Meagan looks down at the cup of tea he made her that morning, and shudders. “Good enough.”

She drains her cup anyway, and goes to wake Anton. Someone will have to steer the boat, after all.

As she expected, he’s not happy. “I have to ferry you around now? Do you expect me to clean your quarters too?”

“Well, the floors _do_ need a good scrubbing…”

“Oh, go jump overboard,” he grumbles good-naturedly as he looks for his shoes. “I suppose I should come along anyway. I’d like to see the sorry excuse for a puzzle Jindosh made for that door.”

That makes her pause. “Anton, you can’t come with us into the Dust District.”

“Of course I can. I’m old, not cripple.”

“Alright, fine, you _shouldn’t_ come with us,” she counters. “Anton, the Dust District’s a mess. The Overseers and Howlers are at each other’s throats, people are fighting for scraps in the streets. It’s _dangerous_.”

“So?” he asks, defiantly. “Daud’s going. You’re going. It’s not any less dangerous for you.”

“Daud can hold back an army if he has to. And I’m expendable,” she explains patiently, logically. “You aren’t.”

“You aren’t expendable,” he scoffs, but his eyes are sad. “Not to me.”

She finds herself choking up again, and wonders when she became such a sentimental fool. “You know what I mean, Anton. Besides, I can handle myself. I’m a big girl.”

“I know that. I – ” he sighs heavily. “ _Fine_. But do me a favour, and bring me back a copy of that riddle. It should prove entertaining for five minutes or so.”

She lets out a chuckle, immensely relieved. “You got it.”

“And Meagan?”

“Yes?”

“At least try not to get yourself killed, will you? I don’t know how to cook.”

* * *

Even though she is no longer connected to the Void and the Ancient Music cannot harm her anymore, the sight of the Overseer music boxes still makes her uneasy. It reminds her of the alley just outside Rothwild’s Slaughterhouse, the tones making her bones shake, her teeth rattle, her head pound. She’d have been dead three times over if not for Daud.

Daud is the only reason she even agreed to infiltrate the Overseer Headquarters in the first place. With his Mark, the music boxes would expose him as a heretic immediately, and then shit would really hit the fan. It’s easier, quicker, more logical for her to be here while Daud deals with the Howlers.

That doesn’t mean she has to be happy about it, though.

She walks with small steps, timidly, a few paces behind the Overseer who’s leading her to Byrne. It wasn’t hard to convince him she was an innocent bystander, that she lost her arm and eye to the Howlers rather than the Grand Guard, that she has some disturbing information about heretical activities in the Royal Conservatory. But she could blow her whole cover if she doesn’t play the part of concerned citizen correctly, from the words she uses to the way she walks.

The last thing she wants is to be exposed smack dab in the middle of an Overseer Outpost.

Byrne’s office is spacious, complete with a balcony and shrine to the Seven Strictures in the corner. She can feel rather than hear the hum of a bone charm, no doubt confiscated from one of the poor souls being executed in the yard. Nothing she could do for them.

“Welcome,” the Vice Overseer smiles warmly, but his eyes are cold. She shakes his hand awkwardly, his right in her left. “I was told you have some information regarding Curator Ashworth?”

“Yes, sir,” Meagan responds readily. “I think… I think she’s a heretic, sir.”

“And what makes you say that?”

At this, she looks away, feigning shame. “I was… I broke into the Royal Conservatory, sir. I know it was wrong, I should have restrained my Restless Hands, but my little girl hadn’t had anything to eat but stale bread for days, and I just couldn’t watch her starve.”

“A serious offense,” Byrne observes sharply. “I could have you arrested.”

“I know, sir. But what I saw… it was frightening beyond belief. I fled without even taking anything.”

“What did you see, then?”

“Women disappearing and reappearing somewhere else in an instant. Dogs made of bones. Vines that can see,” she lists, lowering her voice to a whisper. “An enormous machine, connected to… to coffins, sir. And Curator Ashworth was talking to them, saying she would visit them in dreams and guide them down the right path. Sir, I think they were bodies of your Sisters, of the Oracular Order.”

Byrne actually pales, a true feat given his dark complexion. “By the Strictures,” he gasps, “this is worse than I could have imagined. I must – stay here, please.”

And he leaves, nearly running down the hall and shouting for every Overseer to assemble as quickly as possible. Perfect.

She slips to the small desk in which she can sense the bone charm, and, predictably, finds everything the Overseers confiscated that Byrne finds important enough to keep close. There is no solution to the Jindosh Lock, but there is a note that mentions Aramis, and a key to a room in the Crone’s Hand Saloon. It’ll have to do.

For good measure, she also swipes the bone charm. Daud’s birthday is coming up.

The Overseers don’t notice. Byrne suspected Breanna Ashworth of heresy long before Meagan came along, and the news of Ashworth’s device has them both riled and terrified. Not that it matters; the Oraculum is destroyed and she’s certain Ashworth has already slipped away to a different corner of the world, if she hasn’t strung herself up after losing her connection to Delilah. Whatever the Overseers do, it won’t change a thing.

It takes them nearly half an hour to finish their deliberations, though, and then she is all but shoved out of Overseer territory with an overly formal expression of gratitude and a sizeable pouch of coin for her efforts.

Good, she thinks as she shoves the pouch deep into the pocket of her coat. She’ll need the money to replace the coil Anton removed from the _Wale_ ’s engine.

* * *

“Well?”

“The Overseers are idiots.”

“Tell me something new.”

She barks a laugh. “They don’t know how to solve the riddle. But they caught a Howler who does. Or did, I should say.” She hands him the key. “That’s for his office in the Saloon. I’m betting he wrote it down somewhere.”

“Good work.”

She feels her cheeks heat up at the praise, and she quickly changes the subject. “What did you find out?”

“Paolo is a greedy bastard.”

“Tell me something new.”

His eyes gleam. “There’s only one locked door in the entire building.”

“Now that’s just an insult.”

“Precisely,” he concurs as he tucks away the key in one of the many, many small pockets of his coat. “Paolo is too young to properly remember the Knife of Dunwall and the Whalers. I say it’s time he learned.”

She grins wickedly. “What did you have in mind?”

As it turns out, Daud plans to emulate the Royal Protector’s trek through the Flooded District fifteen years past to a tee. Of course, she wasn’t there to witness Corvo Attano’s spectacular escape from the Whalers’ hideout without spilling so much as a drop of blood, but she gets the gist. Knock out everyone, don’t be seen, and steal Paolo’s precious bone charms without the gang leader ever noticing they're there.

She’s slightly disappointed when she gets the relatively boring job of investigating Durante’s room, but she doesn’t complain. She hasn’t seen such a gleeful look on Daud in, well, ever, and that’s easily worth rifling through a seemingly endless stack of papers to find the solution they’re looking for.

Besides, merely admiring the damage one man caused in the span of mere minutes is a treat in and of itself.

She makes her way through the eerily quiet Saloon, coming across body after body left in Daud’s wake. They’re all alive, of course, but placed in rather… precarious positions. A few are hanging over the railing of the first floor balcony – not up high enough to die if they fall, but certainly high enough to give them a fright when they wake. Others are sprawled out on the floor with half a dozen empty bottles strewn around them, and one unfortunate soul had his head put in Paolo’s safe (which Daud robbed clean, of course. If one wishes to properly emulate the Royal Protector, one simply cannot leave behind even a single coin within a ten mile radius). Best, or perhaps worst, of all were the sets of bodies put rather intimately together, implying some very indecent activities.

When she finds Daud at the bar, looking altogether far too smug, she waves the paper with the code in his face. “Look. I found what we actually came here to find,” she says pointedly.

“Good.”

He doesn’t say anything more, and though she is peeved, her curiosity burns brighter. “So this is what the Royal Protector did at the Base?”

“Yes.”

“Even…” she nods at two male Howlers snoring in each other’s embrace.

“Rulfio couldn’t look Rinaldo in the eye for days.”

She can’t contain the far too childish giggle that escapes her. “Oh, I wish I’d have been there to see that.”

“Me too. I wonder what Attano would have had in mind for you.”

“Har har,” she says dryly, rolling her eyes, but she indulges him nonetheless. “He’d have probably left me up on the roof without my pants.”

“Maybe,” he says thoughtfully. “That’s what he did to Thomas, after all.”

Her laughter is cut off by a loud curse coming from upstairs, but the smile remains on her face even as she and Daud are forced to flee the Crone’s Hand Saloon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my unshakable headcannon that Daud idolizes Corvo's ghostly low chaos run of the Flooded District and has wanted to do something like this ever since. No regrets. Other than that, this chapter is a bit filler-y, but I couldn't bring myself to skip the Dust District mission entirely, because it's one my favourite missions in the game (not as awesome as the Clockwork Mansion or A Crack in the Slab, but definitely up there).
> 
> Next chapter, though. Oh, next chapter is when shit will go down y'all. Be prepared.


	7. VII

As promised, she copies the ridiculously intricate riddle Jindosh designed word for word onto a sheet of paper for Anton, under the watchful eye of two fortune seekers who already tried – and failed – to crack the lock themselves.

It’s actually rather amusing to see their jaws drop when Daud steps forward and enters the correct combination in one go, though Meagan doesn’t pay them any mind once the doors open and she lays eyes on the sad remains of Aramis Stilton’s once magnificent manor.

“He’s dead,” she says dully once the two would-be robbers have made themselves scarce, disappointed by the obvious lack of riches. “He has to be. Aramis never wanted an estate this grand, but he wouldn’t just let it go to hell, if only to keep his servants from being out on the streets. He’s dead.”

He’s not dead.

Somehow, that’s even worse.

He’s but a shadow of the man she once knew, darting around the room nervously, talking to the ceiling. “Time is leaking. It’s running down the walls,” he mutters, madly, before he drops to his knees. “It’s ruining the carpets.”

She’s at his side before she can think. “Aramis, listen to me,” she says, more sharply than she perhaps should have, but he complies, falling silent and staring at her with wide, unblinking eyes. His gaze has her at a loss for words, and then he’s up and about again, dusting off the piano bench as though he’s expecting guests at any moment.

“The days are burning,” he whispers ominously. “Can’t you smell it? Right up in smoke!”

She shivers violently, tears pricking just behind her eye, so Daud steps up. “Stilton,” he begins curtly, no sense of tact as always, but he’s interrupted when the former mine baron leaps up and grabs his shoulders.

“Theo?” he asks, uncertain, releasing Daud as quickly as he took hold of him. “Where are you, my friend? I must speak to you. Let’s have tea in the parlour.”

And then he freezes. Quite literally.

She shoots Daud a murderous glare, because using his powers on Aramis like that is _not okay_ , no matter how unhinged he is, but it falters when she perceives the figure behind Daud, lounging casually on top of the piano as though it was made for them to sit on.

“Three years ago,” it – because it’s not a he, not quite – begins calmly, as if it speaks to her every day, “something inside Aramis Stilton snapped like a cheap lock.”

The words make something inside her snap, too.

“Fuck,” she gasps, stumbling back. Stupidly, the first thing she feels is embarrassment, because she can only think of how many times she has cursed ‘Outsider’s balls’ or even ‘Outsider’s crooked cock’, and how pissed the deity must be at her for doing so.

Daud steadies her, a slight upwards arch to his eyebrows but otherwise unperturbed. He’s used to the Outsider’s appearances, but he’s not used to sharing the privilege with another. The idea that she is the odd one out in this situation is almost laughable.

It’s still talking, Meagan registers vaguely, and she should listen, because it is about Aramis and Delilah and she loves Aramis and hates Delilah, so she should care, and she should listen. But all she can hear is the pulse of time standing still, the calls of whales in the distance, and that strange thumping sound that’s pounded through her skull since they entered the grounds.

And then it’s in front of her, staring at her with those black voids where its eyes should be, and it waits until she meets its gaze before it smiles a smile that has far too many teeth. “Take this,” it says tonelessly when it has her undivided attention, and there is something in her hand that looks as though Anton could have made it, yet could not, with endlessly spinning gears and lenses that unfold like the wings of a dragonfly. “Go and watch the Duke and Delilah. See for yourself what they did.”

Just like that it’s gone, time flowing once again. Aramis is muttering and moving about, oblivious to the exchange that just transpired. Daud’s hands are still on her shoulders.

She promptly empties the contents of her stomach onto the floor.

Heaving, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I cannot believe I actually wanted to meet with that when I was young.”

“Neither can I,” Daud says dryly. “I told you he was an equivocal asshole.”

She manages a chortle. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I have plenty of other ways to put it.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment.”

“What’s that thing he gave you?”

“I’m not sure,” she says, holding up the contraption the Outsider left her with. “It said it’s a kind of timepiece, but what does that even – ”

Three lenses flip out as she turns the timepiece over, and she feels like she’s jerked backwards. “ – mean?”

Daud is gone. Aramis is gone. And the room is _whole_.

“What the… Daud?” she calls tentatively, heart hammering painfully hard in her chest. “Aramis? Anyone?”

The pounding on the doors makes her jump. “Mister Stilton? Your guests are waiting in the study! The Duke is demanding refreshments and I can’t get in without the combination.”

Meagan creeps closer to the doors. “The Duke?” she whispers to herself, the title alone enough to set her further on edge, as if this whole thing hasn’t taken a decade of her life expectancy already.

The calendar besides the door is of 1849.

“Outsider’s ba– eyes,” she curses, clutching the machine made of gears and wings tightly to her chest.

Something pulls at her again, and then Daud is kneeling beside her – when did she fall down? – and Aramis is cackling something in the background.

“Billie.” It’s the concern in his voice that clears her mind. “What happened?”

“I was in the past,” she gasps, her own words sounding like some twisted joke. From what she knows of the Outsider, it actually might be. “Three years ago.”

“I see,” says Daud, much more calmly than anyone in this situation should be. “So it’s quite literally a timepiece, then.”

“Yes.” By the Void, she has transversed and bent time and telekinetically pulled objects and people to her, but this is something else entirely. Something she doesn’t want anything to do with.

“You take it,” she says, holding the device out to him. “You have much more experience with this crap than I do.”

He doesn’t take it. “No, Billie. That’s yours.”

“Well, I don’t want it!”

“Tough luck,” he shrugs. “The Outsider went out of his way to give that to you. It isn’t mine to take.”

The glare she shoots him is half-hearted at best. “Since when are you afraid of the Outsider?”

“I’m not.” He is likely the only person in the world who can say that with such a straight face. “But I am resigned to the fact that he can run this place however he sees fit, and if he wants you to have that timepiece then there’s nothing to be done about it.”

She exhales shakily before she pushes herself up. “Can you at least come with me?”

“I don’t know.” He grabs a firm hold of her shoulder. “Let’s find out.”

She flips out the lenses, and they’re gone.

* * *

“I’m getting too old for this shit,” she pants heavily, the words a struggle to get out. “Too fucking old.”

“What does that make me, then?” Daud grumbles, just as breathlessly. “I’m two bloody decades more ancient than you.”

“Yeah, but you have magic.”

“Not in here.”

That is true, unfortunately. Thank goodness they figured that part out when they were properly hidden and he’d just wanted to look through the walls to check for guards.

“Well, you have two arms.”

“Look at that, I do. Astute observation as always, Lurk.”

“You’re a Void-damned arse, you know that?”

“I’m well aware.”

“Good.”

They sit in the middle of the mess they made for a good five minutes just to catch their breath. Everything had been going well, perfectly even, as they made their way through Aramis’ mansion, switching between timelines to avoid the guard patrols of the past and the bloodfly nests of the present. Then they’d snuck into an empty hallway just seconds before a maid came in from another room down the hall, saw them, and screamed. Meagan had pulled them back to the present immediately – landing them right in the middle of a gigantic bloodfly colony, complete with a duo of nest keepers. It’s a good thing Daud knows his alcohol after all that time on his vineyard; the bottle of Orbon Rum he’d lobbed across the hall was the only thing that kept them from becoming nest keepers themselves.

Eventually, Meagan finds the strength to hoist herself back up. “Alright, break time’s over.”

Daud follows her example. “Have they calmed down?”

“I hope so.” She looks at the past through her timepiece’s wing-shaped lenses. “Hallway’s deserted. I think it’s clear.”

“You thought that last time,” he mutters, but he puts his hand on her shoulder nonetheless. Not being in charge, not holding the power, is difficult for him. Against her expectations, it’s difficult for her, too, and she wonders how she would ever have led the Whalers if she and Delilah had succeeded all those years ago. She’d have been dead within the week, most like.

The timepiece shifts them back to 1849. The maid is nowhere in sight, and they make it to the back courtyard without another hitch.

As with every other area of the mansion, there are guards stationed here, though fewer than she would expect. From their vantage point high up on the balcony, Meagan can see the notebook which contains the code they need on a table in the gazebo, beside a very sane Aramis Stilton.

She signs to Daud, who nods curtly. They creep closer, hugging the shadows as they slip past the few Grand Guard. Luckily, Aramis never was – is? The tenses are confusing – one for hired muscle. He wasn’t afraid of the people of his own District, didn’t particularly care if they stole a trinket or two because he had far too much anyway. And if someone did directly threaten him with violence, he could always rely on his killer right hook.

They crouch behind the support beams, out of sight but within earshot. She’s looking for the best way to snatch the notebook without being noticed when Aramis speaks. “I can’t believe I agreed to this,” he mutters to himself, running his hand through his hair nervously. “Whatever happens tonight, I’ll regret it. But afterward, Meagan’s coming by. Talking with her always sets me right.”

She grabs Daud’s sleeve and pulls them back to the present.

“Billie, what – ” Daud begins, clearly annoyed, but he stops when he hears the whimper that escapes her, growing louder and louder until she’s sobbing.

“He was counting on me,” she sniffs, pure and utter anguish gripping at her throat until she’s clawing at it, gasping for breath. “He was counting on me and I _failed_ him.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Daud says, not unhelpfully, as he awkwardly pats her back. He never did figure out how to deal with emotional people. “Even if you’d gotten to him that night, his mind was already gone. You couldn’t have done anything.”

“Yeah, isn’t that just the story of my life?” she bites out, shrugging away from his touch. “Billie Lurk, the useless little shit who just can’t. Do. Anything!”

She looks down at the piece of crap the Outsider gave her and prepares to fling it across the courtyard when the lenses flip out, and through them she can see Aramis pacing on the gazebo, still sane. Still _whole_.

And then she knows what she has to do.

She’s always been fast, faster than Daud, even when he was a younger man, and so she has no trouble snatching a sleep dart from his bolt pouch and jumping down to the gazebo before he has a chance to stop her.

It takes him all but two seconds to figure out what she’s planning. He jumps down after her, reaching for her, yelling “Billie, don’t!” but she’s already gone, shifting through time just before he can manage to grab hold of her.

She’s back in 1849, staring at Aramis’ back, and her rush of adrenaline has everything else moving so slowly it’s as though she’s bending time. She snatches the notebook first, tucking it away before she stabs the sleep darts into Aramis’ leg and immediately activates her timepiece to take her back.

That’s when the pain starts.

Her eye is on fire. Her arm is being stabbed over and over and over. Her skull is being crushed with a hammer, slowly but surely cracking under the pressure. An unearthly wailing rings in her ears.

It seems to last forever. The wailing is the first to stop. Then the burning, then the stabbing. But the headache remains, pounding relentlessly with every breath she takes as images of the past three years flood her brain, colliding violently with those that were there before. There’s her, fighting the Grand Guard, losing her right eye and arm in the process. But there’s also her, having tea with Aramis in the parlour, both eyes and all limbs intact. Fractured, but whole. Hundreds and hundreds of them, rushing through her mind to claim their place in her memory.

It’s a miracle she’s still sane when she’s coherent enough to sit up.

She only just catches a glimpse of the deserted but well-kept courtyard before her vision is obscured by red, her arms trapped to her sides and a pressure on the back of her head.

It takes her several long seconds to realise that Daud is hugging her.

It takes even longer before she can muster the strength to return it.

He exhales shakily when she wraps her arms (plural, she can hardly believe it) around him. “Don’t you _ever_ ,” he growls, voice thick with emotion, “do anything like that to me again.”

“No promises,” she says, her voice scratchy and her throat raw.

“You really are a useless little shit.” He says it with fondness, though.

“Well it worked, didn’t it? I saved Aramis.”

“And you nearly killed yourself in the process,” he snaps, pulling out of the embrace just so he can stare her down. “By the Void, Billie, you were screaming like the Outsider himself was trying to drag you from this world.”

And wouldn’t that just be like the Void-damned Outsider. Black-eyed bastard, indeed.

“I’m not sorry for what I did,” she says with confidence, because Aramis is more valuable than she is in any case, “but I am sorry for worrying you.”

“You damn well should be,” Daud bites out, but his shoulders lose some tension. “Now let’s go. The sooner we find out what voodoo trick Delilah pulled to make herself immune to death, the sooner we can leave.”

She lets him take the lead, hobbling behind him as fast as she can with her still aching head, the strange feeling of her newly regained limb swinging by her side and the wooziness of her newfound depth perception.

Despite it all, she can’t wipe the smile off her face.

* * *

They get to the study and then out of the manor without a hassle, the servants all recognising Meagan as a friend of Aramis and allowing her and Daud unrestricted access to all of the estate. With Aramis out on business and no reason for them to hang around, they make it back to the front door in good time.

Daud does not relax until they're back in the Dust District and the Mark on his hand briefly flares through his glove. “You’re much too dependent on that, you know.”

“My transversals don’t creak when I use them, unlike my sword arm,” he grunts, unamused, as he reaches for the handle of the door that will lead them back to the streets. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m getting o– ”

He takes the handle, and stiffens.

“Daud?” she asks, but she quickly realises it’s no use. He’s in one of those trances only the Outsider can put him in.

She huffs in annoyance. The Outsider only just made contact with Daud, with the both of them, in Aramis’ manor. What could possibly be important enough to pull Daud into the Void now?

But she can’t ask, can’t reach him while he’s like this, so she has no choice but to wait.

When Daud returns, he’s crying.

Of all the things she’s experienced that day, traveling through time and feeling her own arm grow back, this is the most shocking.

“Daud?” He’s looking at his hand, which is tightly clutched around the air, his expression pure and unadulterated horror. “Daud, come on. Snap out of it.”

He doesn’t respond until she punches him in the gut.

“Billie,” he gasps, the air knocked from his lungs, whether by her fist or whatever has him spooked, she can’t be sure. He doesn’t say anything more, but at least he’s looking at her now.

“What the fuck happened?”

His gaze returns to his hand. “Can you see it?”

She shakes her head. “No. Guess the Outsider wasn’t charmed enough by me to grant me any more supernatural favours.”

It stings, too, like being rejected, but she doesn’t mention that.

“Be glad,” Daud all but spits. “This is a Heart.”

“A heart?”

“A Heart. The Heart of Jessamine Kaldwin.”

“… What?”

“Don’t make me say it again.” It’s meant to be a threat, but it sounds like a plea.

“Outsider’s eyes, Daud. Why in the Void would it give that to you?”

“He said I’d need a vessel to carry a spirit, whatever the Void that means. He probably just finds it intriguing, or fascinating, or whatever his new favourite word is these days.”

She’s eyeing his hand wearily, even though she can’t see the affronting object. “Does it… you know, _know_?”

“Oh, it knows. It knows _everything_. And it won’t. Shut. _Up_.”

He seems ready to tear out his own hair, and she has no idea what to do.

Eventually, she loops her arm through his. “Let’s get back to the ship, okay? We’ll figure out what to do from there.”

Her tone is entirely too gentle, and the fact that he’s not snapping at her for it makes her worry all the more. The death of the Empress nearly destroyed Daud fifteen years ago; who knows what her partial resurrection will do to him?

One thing is different this time, though, she thinks as she leads him back to the skiff. This time, she will stay by his side every step of the way.

She hopes it will be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is how shit went down, y'all. Meagan personally dealing with one of her biggest demons was something I planned since I started writing this, because she lost her arm and eye when trying to help Aramis the first time and she deserves a do-over.
> 
> The last scene might be the evilest thing I've ever written. But Daud and Meagan need something for transporting Delilah's soul, so I thought 'what would the Outsider do'? And since the Outsider never interferes with anything ever, this was the only option.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	8. VIII

Daud hasn’t come out of his room in four days.

Whenever she enters to bring him his meals, he’s always laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, periodically squeezing the air where she knows he’s holding the Heart. It’s a pitiful sight.

She lets him be, though. She can’t imagine what the Heart’s presence must do to him, and they still have a lot of preparing to do before they can stage an assault on the Grand Palace anyway, with or without Daud. Now that she has both arms and eyes back, she’s inclined to go and end Luca Abele by herself.

Not that she has the faintest idea how to get past the Wall of Light, or the Arc Pylon, or the small army of Grand Guard, or the Clockwork Soldiers. But she can dream.

Better yet, she can plan.

She meets up with Anton and Aramis on deck. The sight of Aramis, sane and whole, still brings a smile to her face, even if looking at him makes her head hurt when two contradicting memories fight for dominance. “Have you gotten any further?”

Aramis shakes his head ruefully. “We’re rather stuck on finding a way past the Wall of Light cutting the palace off from the rest of the District.” He raises his glass to Anton. “You did your job far too well, my friend.”

“Hmm,” the old Natural Philosopher grumbles noncommittally, head bowed over an entirely different conundrum: the Jindosh lock. She’d given it to him as a puzzle to exercise his mind, Anton never having asked for the thing in this timeline because Aramis hadn’t needed to be locked away and there had been no need for an intricate puzzle lock in the first place – her head pounds.

“Anton, focus.”

He scribbles something down before he grants them his attention, his expression the picture of exasperation. “I told you, the only way to properly deal with one of my Walls is to cut off its power supply, which means someone will have to climb up to the damn windmill and power it down.”

“Which means you need me.”

Daud looks to all the world as if he did not spend four days locked in a cramped space with only a talking hulk of flesh that’s invisible to everyone but him for company, but Meagan knows him better than that. She can see it in the set of his shoulders, the small crinkles underneath his eyes, the flaring of his nostrils.

Mostly, she can see it in the way his fist is still clenched around the air.

But he’s here, and that means everything. “Yes. If you’re up for it.”

Her gaze flickers briefly to his empty but not empty palm. He notices, of course, and he squeezes the infernal artefact softly. “Lead the way.”

* * *

This time, Aramis is the one who acts as their boatman, being the most familiar with the layout and surroundings of the Grand Palace. He knows exactly where the Duke's private dock is located and where he can best wait without being seen until they can manage to turn off the nearby Arc Pylon.

“Be careful,” he says affectionately to the both of them when they disembark (Meagan is convinced he’s developed a little crush on Daud, not that Aramis would ever admit to fancying anyone but his late Duke and not that Daud has any interest in sexual encounters anyway, but still). “Too many good people have perished recently. I’d loathe to see you go as well.”

“We won’t,” she says confidently, because she refuses to be bested by the bastard who caused her Deirdre’s death. She can survive on pure spite if she has to. “I promise we’ll take care.”

She tries her best to make good on her promise, too. She’s quiet, sneaking past guards and civilians alike without anyone even noticing she's there, eavesdropping on whatever conversation she thinks might contain useful information for them. She’s focused, and she's careful.

Daud isn’t.

Granted, he’s never been the greatest sneak, even in his glory days, but he always knew how to walk across the rooftops unheard, at least. Now, he’s just loud, putting guards on alert and breaking off whispered exchanges that may have held useful intel with every step he takes.

It’s disheartening, but she can deal with it. Outsider knows he dealt with her, back when she was still a novice who dragged her feet and couldn’t hit a target with her wristbow to save her life, though she was wickedly good with her sword.

What she almost can’t deal with is the moment when he aims his transversal, misses his mark, and lands right in the centre of the watchtower’s spotlight.

She’s panting heavily by the time they’re safely inside an apartment building down the street, hiding in the shadows of a gigantic bloodfly nest. The nest keeper is dead at her feet.

“For fuck’s sake, Daud,” she hisses angrily once she’s sure the guards haven’t noticed them slip inside the room, “what in the Void was that? You never misjudge your transversals.”

“Guess they’re getting creaky after all.”

There is no emotion in his voice and his eyes are on the Void-damned Heart she can’t see, so Meagan leaves him behind for a bit while she shoots incendiary bolts at the bloodfly nests and whacks the surviving vermin out of the air with her sword. It makes her feel no better at all, but at least they won’t die a very anticlimactic death from bloodfly stings.

She moves to the room furthest back, finding it thankfully clear of nests. There is something else there, though, something she always knew existed but never expected to ever come across, and she grins wickedly at the sight of it.

Daud is still sitting right where she left him, clutching the air like he hasn’t stopped doing since his last encounter with the Outsider. “I found something for you.”

He raises his eyebrows in mild curiosity, but doesn’t move. “If it’s a shrine, I’ll pass.”

It’s not a shrine, so she takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom so he can marvel at her find. For above the desk in the corner, beautifully lit and remarkably well-preserved, hangs the illusive _Daud and the Parabola of Lost Seasons_ , the painting Anton made of Daud when they were both young men still.

Daud regards it with a mixture of shock and satisfaction, the Heart momentarily forgotten. “I’ll be damned,” he mutters, impressed. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

The painting is at least three decades old now, created during Daud’s brief stay at the Academy. It wasn’t lucrative for the most feared assassin in the Isles to have a portrait of such accuracy lying around, so he tried to hunt it down for years, often sending out Whalers to check out rumours of its surfacing. It became more of a sport than a necessity after the first properly drawn wanted posters of Daud were put up, but he never gave up the chase completely. None of the Whalers ever managed to find it.

Until now.

“He’s making a new one.” Anton’s working on it every night, the disgusting smell of whatever he uses to paint ruining many an appetite. “You’re the first he’s ever painted twice.”

“An honour,” he says dryly, reaching up to take the frame off the wall. “I bet I’m also the first who didn’t want to be painted in the first place.”

“Probably,” she concedes as he takes the painting out of its frame, to her surprise not tearing it into pieces, but carefully rolling it up. “Though you’re rather gentle with that,” she puts on a face and does her best impression of his gruff voice, “‘abomination I’ll use as kindling when I get my hands on it’.”

He tucks the artwork into his coat, and not for the first time she wonders if its pockets are magically extended somehow. “It’ll fetch a good price on the black market.”

That’s not the reason he’s keeping it, though, because they come across the black market on their way to the palace, and he doesn’t even give it a passing glance.

He’s more quiet as they scale the rooftops, too, and it doesn’t take Meagan long to figure out why. “What did she say?”

The look of surprise on Daud’s face morphs into an amused grin almost immediately. “Perceptive as always, Lurk,” he says, but not as a joke this time.

“Don’t dodge the question.”

Daud looks at his palm again, and his squeeze is almost gentle. “She said I was no longer the person in that painting,” he murmurs, so softly Meagan has to strain to hear him, “and she… commended me for the change.”

He doesn’t tell her anything more, but he’s focused, and he is careful, and that is more than she could have hoped for.

* * *

The security at the Grand Palace is a joke.

With how difficult it was to navigate the streets leading up to the Duke’s abode, with the high-strung guards, the watchtower, and the Wall of Light, Meagan had expected the palace itself to be even harder to breech.

But it seems Luca Abele has such faith in the men and devices out in the Palace District that he’s neglected to properly secure his home. The guards are nearly all either drunk, asleep or losing their coin at cards. Besides the pair of Clockwork Soldiers and an Arc Pylon or two, there is nothing to keep out intruders such as themselves.

The arrangement suits them just fine.

They creep up the deserted staircase, all the way to the top floor of the ridiculously gigantic building, where the Duke’s equally ridiculously gigantic private quarters are located. The man himself is out on the balcony, lighting up an undoubtedly ridiculously expensive cigar as he looks out over – down on – his city.

Her hand is on her sword before she realises it, but Daud’s grip on her upper arm stops her.

She shoots him a positively mutinous look; they agreed beforehand that she would be allowed to deal with the Duke as she sees fit. But Daud just shakes his head. “That’s not him.”

“What do you mean ‘that’s not him’?” she hisses back furiously. “Of course that’s him! Look at him!”

“I am. And I can’t imagine the Duke of Serkonos smoking the same crap cigars Jenkins used to.”

Even as he says it, the pungent scent of the tobacco wafts through the open door, and she gags; that’s the same shit Jenkins used to smell up the entire commerce building with, all right. And the Duke doesn’t smoke, she knows that, Maria’s told her a thousand times that he hates the stench and it’s always a hassle to properly clean the linen after Armando’s stayed in Luca’s room. “That’s his body double. Of course. _Of course_.”

“Yes,” Daud concurs. “We should speak with him. See if he’s willing to work with us, be Duke when Abele is out of the picture.”

Her hands are shaking, and she balls them into fists. They planned this, with Anton and Aramis, back on the boat. Serkonos will need a leader after Luca Abele is gone, and who better than the low-born spitting image of the Duke who’s already in regular correspondence with the likes of Aramis Stilton, Alexandria Hypatia and Lucia Pastor?

Yet the mere image of Luca Abele lights a fury in her she thought she’d quelled long ago, and it scares the Void out of her. “You go talk to him.”

Daud raises an eyebrow, but mercifully, he doesn’t ask. “Fine. Wait here.”

He transverses away, appearing just behind not-Luca and scaring the crap out of the man all in one swift movement. They speak tersely, Armando fiddling nervously with his cigar and Daud continuously scanning the area to ensure they aren’t caught. They shake hands, and then Daud’s back beside her.

“He’ll cooperate.”

“What’s the catch?”

“He needs Abele’s family medallion to convince people he’s the true Duke.”

“And Luca himself?”

“Doesn’t matter. Without that medallion, people will think he’s the body double. We can make the guard believe he’s lost his mind and have him admitted, or you can shove a sword through his chest. That’s your call.”

Her call. She hasn’t the faintest idea what to do.

“Where is he?”

“His office.”

“Let’s go.”

They creep back the way they came, halting just outside the double doors to the Duke’s ridiculously large office. Daud peers inside with his Void Gaze. “There’s two guards and a dormant Clockwork. I’ll deal with them. You go for the Duke.”

She nods once, gripping her sword so tightly her knuckles turn white. This is it.

Daud removes the two guards so swiftly and noiselessly she’s certain he’s bent time, and she’s walking, striding, sprinting for the desk as he sticks a stun mine into the Clockwork Soldier before it can wake. The sound is more than enough to startle Luca Abele from his paperwork but she’s already upon him, toppling him chair and all, pinning him to the floor with an ease only a rush of pure adrenaline can cause.

He’s sputtering under her weight, trying in vain to buck her off. She unsheathes her sword.

“Wait! Wait, don’t be hasty!” he pants, eyes round as saucers, “I am the Duke of Serkonos. I can make you rich!”

“I don’t want your money,” she spits out through gritted teeth.

“What is it you want, then? I can give you anything!”

“I want my Deirdre back. Can you give me that?”

“You want what? I can get it, I’m sure, if you’ll just let me go.”

Her barking laugh is mirthless. “I don’t think so. I let you get away once before. It’s not happening again.”

“We’ve met?”

“Oh yes. It was a lovely affair. A day out in Dunwall with your brother. Two girls in the path of your carriage. A stick, a crushed skull, and a wooden deer in his eye.”

And then it dawns on him. “ _You!_ ”

“Me.”

He spits in her face. “You little bitch! How dare you come before me after what you did?! I’ll kill you! I will have you skinned alive and set in a salt bath!”

She’s deliriously calm as she wipes the saliva from her face and raises her sword. “I don’t think you’re in a position to make threats.”

The flash of fear in his eyes is delightful. “No. No, you can’t do this! I am the Duke of Serkonos, you street rat! You can’t touch me, you can’t – ”

She brings down her sword.

Its hilt smashes into his temple and he stills beneath her.

She doesn’t realise she’s crying until she’s firmly locked in Daud’s embrace. “You didn’t kill him.”

“No. Let him go to the asylum. Let him suffer before the Void takes him.”

The pride in his gaze lets her know, without a doubt, that she’s made the right decision.

* * *

The plan goes off without a hitch. Armando has no trouble convincing the Captain of the Guard that he is the Duke, the medallion pinned to his chest more than enough to absolve him of any suspicion. Watching Luca Abele dragged off despite his threats and pleas will be the subject of many happy dreams to come.

The two of them don’t linger. They make their way down to the cellar, Luca’s vault key in hand, to fetch whatever he’s holding for Delilah.

Like everything else made on the orders of Luca Abele, the vault is ridiculously vast and filled with a ridiculous amount of treasure, but the thing they’re after is not hard to miss. The haunting structure made of bone in the centre has Delilah written all over it.

Daud is squeezing the air again.

They approach, and in the shadow of the effigy, a very visible energy manifests itself from the Heart Meagan still can’t see, taking the shape of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin. She drops to her knees more out of reflex than anything else, stunned beyond belief. Daud told her the Heart belong to the late Empress, but to see it, actually see the spirit of the woman whose death had changed so much, is another thing entirely.

“This is it.” Her voice is distorted as she speaks to Daud, coming from another plane, but it’s unmistakably hers. “You must release me from this dead vessel. Only then will you be able to collect Delilah’s spirit.”

“What will happen to you?”

“I will fade into nothing. I will be at peace.”

He exhales shakily. “You deserve that.”

“Daud. I hated you for what you did. But you’re a different man, now. A good man. You can make the world right again. Save my daughter, and my dear Corvo.”

“I will.”

She reaches for his hand, and smiles. “With my last thought, I forgive you.”

And Jessamine Kaldwin crumbles, gone from the world at last.

If Daud wipes at his eyes, Meagan pretends not to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure how Jessamine's ghost-like stuff actually works, if it's visible to others, because she only does it when no one else is around, so I took some liberties. Because the last scene of this chapter should have happened somewhere in canon anyway.


	9. IX

The _Dreadful Wale_ has set sail for Dunwall.

The fact that she’s alive to see the day is more than enough reason for Meagan to light up a celebratory cigarette.

She looks at the colourful Serkonan capital in the distance as she smokes, wondering how it will fare in their absence. It feels as though she and Daud are the only reasons the place has survived thus far, and she loathes to leave it behind just because of that, and definitely not because she’s going to miss the bustling city.

She said goodbye to Aramis a few days ago, after she took him back to his estate and had tea with him in the parlour one last time. She’ll never see him again.

The watch he gifted her – an old model from his miner days, something to remember him by – is carefully tucked into her coat, close to her heart.

She takes another long dreg of her cigarette.

“I thought you quit.”

“I did,” she says, even as she brings the smoke up to her lips again.

“Mind if I take one?”

She holds out the pack to him. “I thought you quit.”

“I did,” he says, even as he strikes the match and lights the cigarette.

Together, they watch Karnaca grow smaller and smaller until it is swallowed by the ocean and they can no longer see. The pack of cigarettes is long spent by the time it happens.

She regards the melancholy expression on his face. “Do you miss the vineyard?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes. It was quiet there. Peaceful. I was content.”

She pauses to look out over the endless ocean. “Do you regret coming with me?”

“No.”

And that’s enough.

* * *

“When will you be leaving?”

“As soon as we can. Tomorrow, if the weather is kind.”

“Yes, yes. Wouldn’t do for the Saviours of Serkonos to die in a thunderstorm while en route to their final great act of heroism.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re more delightful than usual.”

“I try.”

“Anton.”

He sighs and puts down his brush. “Dunwall sets me on edge, Meagan. You know that.”

“I do,” she says, gently. “It holds bad memories for all of us.”

He sits down across from her. “How’s Daud?”

“The same. Delilah’s spirit is driving him up a wall. The waiting, too.”

Anton hums sympathetically. “That’s the one benefit of getting old. Time goes by so quickly, the days all blending together. All I’m waiting for now is death.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Well, it’s true,” he huffs. “I’ve got maybe one more chapter left in my own tale. Hopefully a chapter set next to a roaring fire in Tyvia.”

She reaches for his hand. “You deserve that.”

“At my age, I’ve come to distrust words like ‘deserve’,” he says gravely, “but it would be nice. I’ve been away from home for too long.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.”

“Right, you were born in Dunwall, weren’t you?”

“I was,” she murmurs, looking out the porthole at where she knows the shoreline of Dunwall will appear once they get close enough. “It feels like everything has come full circle for me.”

He regards her intensely for a moment. “You aren’t coming back once you leave for the Tower.”

She stares at him, wondering, not for the first time, how he always seems to know what’s going through her mind. “No.”

“You’re staying with Daud.”

“As long as he’ll have me.”

“Good,” Anton says, matter-of-factly. “You’re better for his presence. Less cagey. And you smile more.”

This, of course, brings a frown to her face that makes him laugh. “It’s a compliment, Meagan.”

“I know,” she says, and she does know. “Anton, when we leave, I want you to have the _Wale_. Go to Tyvia with her.”

He stops short. “You’re giving me your ship? Are you certain?”

“Yes.” It’s one of the few things she’s sure of. “I’m not sure if I’ll survive this fight against Delilah, and if I do, I doubt Daud will have need of a ship captain. Either way, I won’t need her anymore.”

“What if you live and Daud perishes? Won’t you want her back then?”

“I’ll get myself a new ship.”

“That seems highly impractical.”

“You don’t understand. If Daud dies, I can’t come back to this ship,” she says quietly. “I named her the _Dreadful Wale_ because it is an anagram for ‘Farewell Daud’. He was always good with word puzzles. When I was searching for him, I hoped he might look upon my boat and realise it was named for him.”

“Ah.” Anton doesn’t need any further explanation. “And if he doesn’t make it, the ship will always remind you of the fact that you won’t ever find him again.”

“Yeah. So please, take it.”

“Don’t you want anything in return?”

“No, I don’t – ” she begins, but the sight of his paintbrush changes her mind. “Wait, yes. I’d like the painting you made. Of Daud. In case I do need to find myself another ship.”

“It’s yours.”

“Thank you.”

“No, Meagan. Thank _you_. For everything.”

His voice is thick, and he’s wiping at his eyes. “Anton, are you crying?”

“No! I just have something in my eye, that’s all. It wouldn’t hurt to sweep in here every once in a while, you know.”

“Hey, it’s your boat now.”

And they bicker like they always do, but end up in an all-saying embrace all the same.

“I’ll miss you, you old coot. Don’t die before you get to Tyvia.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good,” she smiles as she pulls back. “I won’t wake you when we leave in the morning. So I guess… this is goodbye.”

He grips her shoulders, his own smile rather watery. “I hope you succeed at the Tower. Whatever happens, know that I’m a better man for having met you, and that I’m proud of you.”

Now it’s her turn to wipe her eyes. “Damn it, it really is dusty in here.”

“Told you.”

“Go to bed, Anton.”

“Yes, yes, I know I need my beauty sleep.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Meagan. And… goodbye.”

It takes a very long time before she hears his snores echo throughout the _Wale_. It is this familiar, comforting sound that finally eases her into sleep, too.

* * *

They leave at dawn.

It feels strange to leave her ship, her life, behind, but Meagan does not regret it. She’s done everything she had to, from sweeping the floors for Anton to collecting what few possessions she deemed worthy of taking (both paintings of Daud, old and new, are currently residing in the unnaturally large pockets of Daud’s coat. The audiograph with his voice is tucked away in her own).

They ride the skiff to Dunwall in silence, which is only occasionally broken by Daud grumbling something at the invisible Heart that now holds Delilah’s spirit. Meagan is immensely grateful for the fact that she can’t see or hear the accursed thing. Jessamine was one thing, Daud’s phantom, the reason of his inner turmoil; Delilah is hers, whispered words and soft touches turning her against her family. She’s not sure how long she could stand to hear that voice before either starting to throw things or breaking down in tears.

To think she’d once been awed, enamoured, even, by the witch’ presence. What a foolish girl she’d been.

When they reach the city and disembark, Daud halts her. “Billie.”

Her hand flies to her sword immediately. “What is it? Witches?”

“No,” he shakes his head, motioning at her to put the weapon away. She complies, baffled as to why he would look so tense without an immediate threat around. Indeed, he almost seems… nervous?

“Daud, what is it?”

“We’re heading into enemy territory,” he states the obvious. “All of our adversaries will be in possession of some measure of arcane abilities. I’ll be able to fight them evenly. You won’t.”

Wait... What?

“Are you saying you’re… leaving me behind?”

“I – ”

“How dare you?!” she snarls furiously, trying and failing not to raise her voice. “I left my whole life behind for this! Delilah is as much my demon as she is yours, maybe even more so, and she’s powerful enough to topple the whole cursed Empire. I’m not going to stand idly by while you go on a Void-damned suicide mission by yourself! We’re in this together, damn you!”

She breathes heavily, and Daud regards her for a moment with an infuriatingly amused expression. “Are you done?”

“No!” she hisses, but she is, and she falls silent.

“Billie,” he says, reaching for her shoulder. She jerks away from his touch, and he sighs. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

The words untie a knot in her chest she didn’t even realise was there, but she doesn’t show it. “Then why would you tell me I’m weak?”

“I didn’t say that,” he counters sharply, eyes briefly flashing in anger. It’s gone as quickly as it came. “You’re a good fighter, but you’re at a distinct disadvantage against Delilah’s witches without any supernatural help.”

“So?”

The look on his face is pained, as though he cannot believe he actually has to spell this out for her. “ _So_ , if you’re open to it, I want to share my power with you through the Bond. We should be able to fight the witches on equal footing then.”

Wait... What?

“Outsider’s _balls_ , Daud,” she spits out, momentarily forgetting the Outsider’s very human form in the face of this development, “you think you could have led with that!”

He fixes her with a rather incredulous stare. “I thought it was obvious.”

“Ob– no, of course it wasn’t obvious!” she splutters, insulted. “You remember the last time we discussed the Arcane Bond?”

He actually flinches at that, and if she has to give a name to the emotion in his eyes, she’d call it shame. “I do. We hadn’t spoken in a long time, and I didn’t know what to make of you, of your motivations.”

“You didn’t trust me. Understandably so.”

“I trust you now.”

She exhales shakily, and wordlessly holds out her left hand, not trusting herself to speak. He grabs hold of it with his Marked one, which flares brilliantly underneath his glove.

The surge of power that follows is positively electrifying.

It is in that exact moment that Meagan Foster fades from the world, and Billie Lurk steps from her shadow.

* * *

The city is deserted.

It’s a sad sight, the ravaged buildings and the empty streets, but for the moment, it suits Billie just fine.

Because transversing again after fifteen years is _hard_.

It might have something to do with the fact that she’s used her left arm– for too long a time, her only arm – as her sword arm for over three years now, or that her newly regained depth perception makes it frustratingly difficult to aim and time accurately. She’s already lost count of how many times she’s stumbled, or fallen, or just completely missed, and she only got her powers back scarce an hour ago.

Daud is patient with her, though. He knows how difficult this must be for her, and how important it is for her to get better control of her abilities before they assault the Tower. And maybe he remembers his own misjudged transversal not too long ago, when the Heart of Jessamine Kaldwin had him too distracted to function properly.

He mentors her, just like all those years past, telling her how to distribute her weight and how to slow time while aiming, even when rapidly changing direction. Billie isn’t the best recruit he’s ever trained for nothing, and she picks it up again quickly, the powers feeling much like pulling on a pair of gloves that were stiff from being unworn for a long time, now loosening with use. She’s particularly glad her abilities to pull and bend time are much easier to use again than her transversals, and before long she feels confident enough to move forward.

“Are you sure?” Daud asks, nothing but a gentle concern in his voice. “If you want to practice some more, we can. We’ve come this far; an additional hour or two won’t change anything.”

“No, we should go. This is as good as I’m going to get today,” she says, truthfully. “As long as I remember that I don’t _have_ to transverse everywhere, I’ll be fine.”

He grins at that, remembering all too well how easily young Billie had succumbed to fatigue when he first gave her the Bond because she was adamant to transverse absolutely everywhere. A high ledge? Transversal. A long distance? Transversal. A short distance? Transversal. A curb? Transversal. It was only after she collapsed from magical exhaustion in the middle of training that she slowed herself down and started learning how to combine her supernatural with her natural abilities to become a lethal force.

“Let’s go then.”

They move from the streets to the courtyard, and where the city was empty, a sad husk of the thriving community it used to be, the courtyard is positively overrun.

There are witches _everywhere_.

Billie’s sword arm is itching to draw her weapon and shove it through as many rose-decorated chests as she can (which should be many, now that she has her powers back), but she refrains. It wouldn’t be wise to start a fight now, to tire themselves out before they even got to Delilah, to risk getting injured. The witches are only a threat as long as their mistress walks this plane anyway. When they get rid of Delilah, all these witches will be mere women again.

It’s not hard to sneak around their adversaries. They are all preoccupied with their spells and bonfires and Outsider knows what some of them are doing, not expecting anyone to attempt an infiltration of the Tower. Besides, Daud and Billie have an advantage when it comes to breeching the security of Dunwall Tower: they’ve done it before.

The route they took across the rooftops to reach Jessamine Kaldwin has been largely blocked by Delilah’s distinct vines, but Daud had his Whalers draw up at least a dozen possible routes to the gazebo, the throne room, and the Empress’ chambers just in case. In this regard, he’s been more thorough than Delilah, who has obstructed quite a few of the possible entrances into the Tower, but not nearly all of them. They slip in through a small unguarded tunnel exposed by the low water level of the moat.

The inside of the Tower is an absolute mess, and Billie crinkles her nose at the smell of decay mixed with roses, so very much like the scent of Delilah’s hair. The thought alone is enough to raise the hairs at the back of her neck.

The elevator is powered down, and they cannot transverse all the way up to the rooftop from here. They’ll have to restore the power, or find another way up.

Billie takes the lead here, having led the party of Whalers that scouted the interior of the Tower so long ago. She can still dream its layout, and though Delilah and her coven have made some drastic changes to the décor, she guides Daud into the basement unseen.

Down here, with the low ceilings and sharp corners, Billie is especially grateful for their otherworldly abilities. Daud bends time once, twice, thrice, allowing them to slip by a small army of witches and two Clockwork Soldiers to reach the lowest level of the building without being spotted. He’s breathing heavily by the time they arrive, and Billie offers him one of the dozen vials of Addermire Solution she brought. He drinks the unpleasant concoction while she fills a tank with whale oil and inserts it into the power station, grinning contently as the lights around them flicker to life.

The witches come out of nowhere.

Her hand flies to her blade, wristbow at the ready, and she makes to transverse behind them, but she is too slow. A thin vine, covered with thorns, jams into her right shoulder, cutting through skin, muscle, sinew.

The feeling is hauntingly familiar.

Daud dispatches of the duo of witches easily enough, leaving them snoring in a corner. He wordlessly hands her a vial of elixir, and she downs it in one go, hissing in pain as he carefully inspects her wound.

“Damn thing went straight through,” he mutters darkly, angrily. “Void-dammit, I should have seen them coming.”

He kicks an empty whale oil tank across the room, and she smiles wryly. “I doubt that’ll help, you know,” she drawls, taking pride in the fact that she sounds almost bored despite the growing urge to scream. “How bad is the damage?”

“Bad,” he says simply.

She laughs, and it’s only slightly hysterical. “Wouldn’t it be something if I lost the damn arm again?”

“No,” he says – growls, more like – and he tears the sleeve off his own shirt, tying it tightly just above the wound to stop the seemingly endless flow of blood. “You’ll heal. The Void will help.”

She doubts the Void likes her enough to save her arm, especially since the Outsider seems to be a sucker for poetic irony like this, but she keeps her mouth shut and drinks the second elixir he shoves her way. She’ll worry about her arm after they deal with Delilah.

“Delilah comes first,” she voices her thoughts through gritted teeth. “Let’s go.”

He looks very much like he wants to argue, but they both know she’s right. So they retrace their steps back to the elevator, taking great care not to alert any more witches. At least the Void is channelled primarily through her uninjured arm, Billie thinks as she transverses behind cover. She’ll need her powers more than her sword.

They ride the elevator up to the very roof of the Tower, the highest point in Gristol. The view is breathtaking, even with the city below in shambles, but they have no time to properly admire it. The throne room lies ahead, and with it, Delilah.

The entrance is boarded up thoroughly, no light allowed inside, but they can hear the mad Empress cooing at something, her voice unmistakable. Billie clenches her jaw at the sound, readies her stance, and waits for Daud to give the signal, quite content to take the bitch down here and now and be done with it.

Daud does give a signal, but it’s not the signal she’s waiting for.

It’s the signal that means ‘stand down’.

The look she gives him must speak for her, because he continues, first indicating her wounded arm, and then signing ‘backup’. The meaning is obvious; he wants to go in alone, for her to remain out of danger unless he can’t handle it himself. It’s a terrible fucking idea, but Billie knows she’ll only impede Daud with an injury like this. So she nods her head, however reluctantly, and takes cover, far enough away from the door to be out of even Void Gaze’s reach. He will summon her through the Bond when and if she is needed.

She stays put for what seems like hours, the only assurance she has of Daud’s survival the continuing pulse of the Void in her left hand. She’s trying to listen for the sounds of their fight so intently she doesn’t realise the gravehound is behind her until it’s already grabbed a hold of her leg, forcibly dragging her into the throne room through the gap in the boards Daud made to gain entrance.

The scene before her is terrifying.

She spots Daud first, entangled in vines, their thorns pressing into his flesh as he struggles against them, all the while cursing in three different languages. Then she sees the statues, Emily Kaldwin and Corvo Attano, frozen back-to-back in an eternal position of fury and turmoil. Finally, she beholds the gigantic mural painted along the length of the room’s wall, a mass of cheering people surrounding an eerily empty throne.

And then there’s Delilah.

“Why, Billie, my budding bloom,” she all but purrs, “what a lovely surprise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I suck at writing confrontation and cliffhangers and I'm really sorry.  
> Give Sokolov all the love please.


	10. X

She’s still beautiful.

Despite the fact that she’s a witch, despite the fact that she’s singlehandedly brought the Empire to the brink of destruction, despite the fact that she’s looming over Billie with a sword in her hand, Delilah is still beautiful.

But it doesn’t affect her as much as it did when they first met. When she looks at Delilah, she does not see the slim figure and the angular features, or the full lips and the piercing blue eyes. Instead, she sees Anton, broken and alone, Aramis, maddened by time, Hypatia, controlled and supressed by her own mind.

She sees Daud, bound tightly by vines, looking at her with an unbearably sad expression on his face.

“You disappoint me,” Delilah tuts, shooing the hound away before kneeling by her side. “I thought you’d be happier to see me.”

“Leave her alone, Delilah!” Daud barks, managing to sound imposing despite his position. “This is between you and me.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” the witch drawls, and with a flick of her wrist another vine wedges itself firmly between Daud’s teeth, effectively silencing him. “I’m having a private conversation here.”

Billie’s mind is racing, desperately trying to come up with something, anything, to keep her alive, to keep Daud alive, at least long enough to take down Delilah.

“Delilah.” She shakily pushes herself to her knees and lowers her head. “Mistress Delilah.”

“Oh?” She can’t see the witch’s face, but she imagines a raised eyebrow in pleasant surprise. “You come here in the company of my most hated adversary, after having disposed of my loyal followers in Karnaca, and you believe you have the right to address me this way?”

Arrogant bitch. “Forgive me,” she says, bowing deeper. “I believed delivering the Mouse of Dunwall would appease you, Mistress.”

Delilah hums in assent. “But not before you assisted him in taking down my allies.”

“They were weak,” Billie replies readily, and she doesn’t even have to lie. “Luca Abele was not fit to be your consort. And Breanna wilted long before we extinguished her magic.”

“I see,” says Delilah softly. “Sweet little bloom, did you wish to grow?”

“I did, Mistress. I still do.”

“Yet you did not kill your Master when I ordered it,” Delilah says, the tone of her voice dangerously low. “You knelt before him and offered him your life. You betrayed me.”

“My apologies, Mistress,” she mutters docilely. “I admit I was in turmoil. I was not strong enough to properly serve you, at the time. But I am now.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, little bloom,” she says sharply, “but I will grant you the chance to prove yourself to me.”

“Thank you, Mistress Delilah.”

“Rise,” the Empress orders.

Billie obeys, wobbling slightly on her wounded leg though she cannot feel the pain. When Delilah looks her in the eye, she pretends the witch in front of her is her Deirdre, her kind, beautiful Deirdre, whole and bubbly and smiling, and she hopes her gaze reflects all the love she still feels for her one and only, her soulmate.

It must, because Delilah grins in delight, a predatory grin that conveys no love at all. She cups Billie’s cheek and presses their lips together in a soft, chaste kiss. “You have bloomed, my dear.”

She withdraws almost immediately, as though she’s just rewarded a pet rather than a human being. Delilah prefers to turn her attention to the captive Daud, her expression the very definition of glee. “Foolish old man,” she crows happily, as if seeing him this way is everything she’s ever wanted out of life. “Twice you placed your trust in little Lurk, and twice she’s chosen me over you. Will you never learn?”

Daud growls around the thick vine in his mouth, a feral sound of pure and unadulterated hatred and fury. His expression mirrors the sentiment perfectly, and though his eyes are trained on Delilah, his scorn is meant for them both. Billie can _feel_ it.

Delilah delicately runs her gloved hand over his cheek, a touch he can’t jerk away from no matter how much he may want to, the blood briar keeping him firmly trapped in place. “You’ve aged less well than the Royal Protector,” she muses, almost idly, as her fingers trace his weathered scar. “Much less well. A pity.”

Her grip suddenly grows more firm, clawed nails raking over his skin until she draws blood. “But no matter. You won’t age much further now.”

She unsheathes her sword. “You will never threaten my rule again.”

She brings it down, and Billie’s mind screeches at her to move, to take the blade for Daud, to shove her own blade into Delilah’s back, to do something, _anything_.

In the end, all she can do is scream. “Wait!”

Delilah does, her blade barely an inch from Daud’s throat, and Billie seizes the opportunity immediately. “Let me do it. Let me finish the job you gave me, Mistress.”

The Empress turns to look at her, and Billie bows her head in seeming reverence so she cannot see the fear for Daud in her eyes. “Let me prove myself.”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Delilah whispers elatedly, and to Billie’s immense relief, she removes her sword from Daud’s neck. “A poetic end for an unpoetic man. How fitting.”

She steps back – steps behind Billie, out of her sight, and that makes her spine tingle with dread. “Do it.”

Billie draws her own sword, awkwardly, with her left hand, her right arm all but useless after the incident in the basement. Her eyes dart across Daud’s figure, trying to see where the vines originate, where they tangle, where she has to cut them to free him. But there are so many, and the room is so dark, and she just doesn’t have the time to stand still and look with Delilah looming behind her.

So she talks.

“I adored you, you know. Worshipped the ground you walked on. I would have followed you to the Void and back if you’d asked.” It’s just one vine, a single blood briar, she notices, branching at several points to keep Daud in place.

“But then you grew _weak_. After the Empress. I still had my doubts, back then, still clung to the image of the man I’d known. Void, until recently I thought, hoped, that you hadn’t changed, that you were still the Knife of Dunwall. Imagine my surprise when I found a Void-damned viticulturist in his place.” The root originates on the floor, just behind his left foot.

She circles around him. “You _are_ weak. I have no doubts anymore. And now there will be one less Marked in this world.”

She lunges, and cuts through the vine in one swift motion.

To his credit, Daud does not stumble, nor does he hesitate. His arm is around Billie immediately, and he’s transversed them away before Delilah’s enraged scream can knock them back.

They reappear on the other side of the room, shielded from Delilah’s view by a rose-covered pillar. Daud takes the opportunity to drink a vial of elixir to try and stop the blood seeping from the dozens of cuts the blood briar inflicted upon him.

When he’s finished, Billie signs him the signal that means ‘feint’, just to make it absolutely clear that her second betrayal had only been for show, and that she’s still on his side. He nods once, a curt but heartfelt gesture, and in return signals ‘range’ to her. She grins wickedly. Her sword arm may be compromised, but assaulting the witch with bolts is the next best thing. So she readies her wristbow, and waits for Daud’s signal.

It takes several long seconds before he does give her the signal, and she darts from the pillar’s cover immediately, rapidly firing bolt after bolt from her wristbow in Delilah’s direction. They all strike true, or would have struck true, had the witch not conjured up another of those Void-damned blood briars to shield herself.

But Daud makes good use of her diversion. He’s upon Delilah almost instantly, driving her back with hard and powerful strikes of his sword that she barely manages to block. She tries to knock him back with a screech, but he bends time and dodges easily; she calls for a gravehound to aid her in battle, but he uses pull to separate the beast’s skull from its body and crushes it underneath his boot. Their Void powers are all but useless against another favoured by the Outsider, and soon the clash comes down to their blades.

And when it comes to sword fighting, Delilah doesn’t stand a chance against Daud. He may be older, he may not have properly used a blade in fifteen years, but he is still a master. Against Delilah, who relies altogether far too much on her arcane abilities, who’s never properly been taught how to use a weapon, Daud doesn’t even have to exert himself.

He has her disarmed and cornered in what seems like the blink of an eye, his blade at her throat, and Billie can hardly believe that it’s over, that they’re both still alive after all they’ve been through in the past two months, that Delilah is finally _dead_.

Except that she’s not.

Billie realises too late that his blade is shaking in his hands, unable to push through, unable to draw blood, unable to kill. Unable to revert back to the Knife of Dunwall.

Delilah sees it too, just a split second before Billie does, and her screech sends Daud flying across the throne room, crashing him into a pillar. He lands on the floor with a sickening thud, and he does not get up.

“ _Daud!_ ” Billie screams despite herself, the sight of his motionless body bringing a dozen different nightmares to the forefront of her mind. She runs for him, frantically searching for the stray elixir she knows she brought with her, certain that any remedies Daud might have had left broke from the impact of his fall. Her vision is blurred with tears and she can’t find the Void-damned elixir among the vials of Addermire solution in her pockets and she’s been running for what feels like ages but she’s barely any closer –

The blood briar sweeps her legs from underneath her and she slams into the ground, hard. Pure survival instinct has her ducking into a ball and using her momentum to roll just a bit further, out of the vine’s reach. She skids to a halt at the feet of the Empress’ throne, which pulsates with a nauseating energy not unlike the one at Aramis’ mansion.

The sensation helps her focus. The Outsider’s timepiece, though useless there where time hasn’t cracked, sits in her pocket still, as a reminder of what she’s done for Aramis. She has survived time travel, an Overseer’s outpost, the Duke’s Grand Palace. She’ll be damned if she dies here. She’ll be damned if she lets _Daud_ die here.

Billie gets up to see the witch Empress herself rushing at her with her sword drawn and a snarl on her face. She ducks, just barely, and fumbles for her own blade, sheathed at her right hip, with her left hand. Delilah sends a gravehound at her, and Billie focuses her mind and pulls at its skull like she saw Daud do before.

Nothing happens.

She’s forced to fling herself sideways to avoid the creature’s sharp fangs. Delilah laughs merrily. “You’re wilting, little bloom!”

Billie finally manages to free her sword from its scabbard. She stabs it through the hound’s skull first, shattering it, and then Delilah is already upon her. Their blades clash violently, but Billie immediately feels she has the upper hand – she’s always been good with her sword, has trained mercilessly for a decade, and she’s fenced exclusively with her left hand for the past three years. She doesn’t have her powers – Daud’s just unconscious, she tells herself desperately, he’s just unconscious – but if she’s fast enough, if she pushes through, then she might just make it. She has to. She _will_.

With a shout, she breaks their lock and then she lunges forward. Delilah blocks her attack, but barely, and she stumbles back, one, two paces. Billie sees the opening immediately, adrenaline pushing her forward. She slashes her sword across Delilah’s chest, tearing through clothes, skin, flesh, but it’s superficial. The witch falls, but she’s not down. Not yet.

Her momentum carries Billie forward, and she lets herself fall on top of Delilah, pinning the witch’s arms down with her knees. The Empress tries to scream her Void-powered screech, but Billie is faster, the hilt of her blade slamming into Delilah’s throat to cut off her air. The flicker of fear in her eyes reminds Billie strikingly of Luca Abele, and the rush she feels at the sight of it is both exhilarating and terrifying at once. But unlike Luca Abele, Delilah can’t be left alive. She’s much too dangerous to leave be.

Her sword is already raised, blade poised to strike, and she’s so _damn close_ , when the blood briar wraps around her wrist and pulls it back with a snap. The snap, Billie realises dimly, is the sound of bones breaking.

Delilah grins a bloodstained grin.

Billie twists in the briar’s iron grip, undoubtedly damaging her arm further but beyond the point of caring. She sees her sword at the base of the large vine, and she reaches for it with her right hand, the wound in her shoulder screaming in protest. She grits her teeth and bears it, inching closer to her blade all the while.

The second blood briar springs up on her other side, reaches for her, and Billie knows that this is the end, that Delilah has won. She lets her eyes flutter closed, and hopes that her death, and Daud’s, will be quick. He deserves as much. She doesn’t, but then she didn’t deserve Daud’s forgiveness, or Anton’s friendship, or the Outsider’s attention, and somehow she received all of that in the past year alone. Maybe she can have this one last request, too.

The heat that washes over her is not the sensation she expected, and she opens her eyes to the marvellous sight of the briar coated in flames, screeching as it is reduced to ashes in the span of mere seconds. At that moment, it is the most beautiful thing she’s seen in her life.

She whips her head around to see Daud struggling to his feet, the fire in his eyes much brighter than any flame could ever be, and that ignites a spark in her that quickly blazes into a furious inferno. The feeling is overwhelming, easily able to overtake the sensation of pain in her shoulder, and though she can feel something tear that really shouldn’t be tearing, she reaches for the sword anyway, inching closer and closer but Void-dammit, not close enough. The briar still digging into her left wrist is not giving her enough room to move, and Daud can’t set the accursed thing on fire without frying Billie in the process.

It’s times like this she really hates the Outsider’s lefty fetish. If only she could channel her powers through both her hands, she would be able to pull her sword towards her in an instant.

As if responding to her thoughts, her blade twitches and starts to move, however slowly, towards her outstretched palm, the familiar greenish energy of a pull surrounding it, tugging at it from afar. The force is unmistakably Daud’s, strong and heavy like no other user of the power could emulate.

Her fingers finally, _finally_ close around the hilt of her sword, and with all the strength she can muster, she stabs it straight through Delilah’s skull.

The briar holding her upright vanishes almost immediately, and the abrupt lack of support causes Billie to lose her balance and fall forward. Her arms unable to catch her, she lands in the middle of the rapidly growing puddle of blood and brain matter pouring from the defeated Empress’ body. She stares straight into Delilah’s unseeing eyes, and she allows herself a short moment of grief for the woman who had such a talent for imagining the world as a better place.

It isn’t long before Daud picks her up and just holds her, in silence, for a long time. She lets him because she knows he needs this, and not because the smell of leather and petrichor and _Daud_ slows her rapid breathing and calms her racing heart until she feels like some semblance of herself again.

When they part, she takes in his appearance, all covered in grime, sweat and blood, and she smirks. “You look like shit.”

“You are a shit,” he counters smoothly, the words nearly a reflex at this point. “‘Mistress Delilah’, I nearly had a Void-damned heart attack.”

“You nearly had a Void-damned heart attack because you’re old,” Billie grins. “Besides, I wouldn’t’ve had to do that if you hadn’t gotten yourself caught in the first place.”

He scoffs and looks away; she’s obviously hit a sore spot. “Returning her spirit had some unexpected backlash,” he grinds out. “She recovered before I could.”

“Leave it to the Outsider to give you malfunctioning equipment,” she says, and foolishly, attempts to shrug. Pain sears through her right shoulder, uninhibited by adrenaline this time, and she doubles over with a groan.

Somehow Daud manages to produce an unbroken vial of elixir from his pocket and helps her drink the concoction down. The relief is palpable. “I’m going to need a shitload more of those,” she mutters darkly, but she’s not complaining, because the fact that she and Daud are both alive, no matter what state they’re in, is a miracle in and of itself. “And you do too.”

“I’m fine,” Daud says, and she envies the successful shrug of his shoulders, “just a few scratches and broken ribs. Maybe a concussion. Nothing serious.”

Billie smiles. “Still.”

“We left some surplus behind on the _Wale_ ,” Daud remembers. “I’ll fetch them.”

“Don’t.”

“Billie, you need – ”

“I know. Trust me, I know,” she chuckles humourlessly. “But the _Wale_ ’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Halfway to Tyvia by now, I hope.”

It doesn’t take Daud long to figure out the implication. “Does he even know how to steer a ship?”

Again, Billie wishes fervently for the ability to shrug. “Don’t know. But considering he’s the most brilliant mind of his generation, I have high hopes of him figuring it out.”

Daud is silent for a while. “You gave away your ship.”

“I did.”

“Good.”

Billie raises an eyebrow. “Good?”

“It’ll be harder for you to skip out on me without it,” Daud says, in what he probably believes is a nonchalant tone. “Besides, the thing was a rust bucket if I ever saw one. Terrible name, too.”

It’s as though she is a mother and he just insulted her firstborn child. “What do you mean, terrible name? I named it for you!”

“I know,” he says simply. “Knew from the first time I saw it. Doesn’t take away that it’s a bad anagram.”

“Oh, well, excuse me for sucking at wordplays,” she mutters cholericly. She’d have crossed her arms too, if only she could. “I was only trying to find you.”

“You were,” he says quietly.

“I mean, I tried to find a way to rearrange ‘Hello Daud’ rather than ‘Farewell Daud’,” she continues wryly, “but the only thing I could come up with was the _Dual Holed_ and I doubt any self-respecting pirate could have ignored that.”

Daud snorts out a laugh that quickly turns into a grimace when his broken ribs protest the movement. “On second thought, _Dreadful Wale_ is fine,” he grunts, clutching his side. “It’s gone either way. And we still need elixirs.”

“Well, if anyone knows where to find some…” Billie says, trailing off as she directs her gaze to the two statues in the centre of the room. She had expected all traces of Delilah’s magic to fade away once the witch had been dealt with, but the rightful Empress and her Royal Protector are still very much petrified.

“Maybe my Mark can negate her magic,” Daud responds after some contemplation. “Come on.”

He helps Billie to her feet, but her injured leg, damn that fucking gravehound, can’t hold her weight. Daud can do little but carry her away from Delilah’s body and prop her up against the pillar closest to Emily and Corvo.

He circles the statues, studying them, before stopping in front of the Royal Protector’s form and firmly placing his hands on the stone shoulders. The Mark on his hand flares brightly through his glove.

Corvo regains consciousness with a groan, eyes half-lidded as though just waking from a long slumber. His body unaware that it is expected to support itself again, his knees buckle out from under him and Daud has to seize him to keep him from falling. It’s the human contact that snaps him out of his daze, and he looks at Daud with an utterly bewildered expression on his face. “Daud.”

“Attano,” Daud returns as he helps the other man stand up straight. “Welcome back.”

“Back…?” Corvo asks, momentarily confused. It all comes back rather quickly. “Delilah. The coup. Emily!”

He whips around to find his daughter still encased in stone, and he stumbles his way to her, delicately taking her face in his hands. Nothing happens, Corvo’s lack of Mark making him powerless against Delilah’s lingering magic. “Help her,” he implores Daud, his pride easily shoved aside by the needs of his child. “Please.”

“In a minute,” Daud grumbles back, breathing heavily but trying his best to mask it. His Mark flashes weakly. “It takes a lot.”

Corvo nods stiffly, understanding but most definitely not pleased, when his attention is drawn to the corpse of the witch Empress still oozing blood on the other side of the room. “Void, what happened?”

“Much,” Daud says dryly, though Corvo’s piercing look swiftly prompts him to explain further. “It’s been almost two months since the coup, and – ”

Corvo interrupts. “Two months?!”

“Give or take.”

“Outsider’s eyes,” Corvo mutters, stunned. “But what… when… how?”

“Eloquently put,” Daud drawls, but even the sarcasm isn’t enough to rile Corvo. “It’s a long story, and I don’t even know all of it.”

He looks at Billie expectantly, her knowledge of the events leading up to the coup exceeding his, and she sighs. “I told you everything I know, little as it is. I’m still missing bits and pieces myself.”

Corvo almost makes a pirouette at the unexpected sound of her voice, and she’d have laughed if the look on his face wasn’t so haunted. “Who are you?”

“Billie Lurk, Lord Protector,” she says with a bow of her head. “Nice to meet you in the flesh. I’d shake your hand, but…”

She nods to her mangled arms, and despite his shock, Corvo is quick to produce a duo of S&J health elixirs from his coat. He passes one to Daud, and then seems at a loss of how to give Billie the other when she cannot take it from him.

Daud snatches the second elixir from Corvo’s hand and kneels next to Billie, bringing first one and then the second vial to her lips. The thought of keeping one for himself doesn’t even seem to cross his mind, and the thought of complaining about it does occur to Billie, but the wonderful alleviation of her pain easily persuades her to keep quiet.

Corvo watches the gentle exchange curiously. “Is she your…?” he asks Daud, losing his nerve halfway through the question. The fact that his gaze lingers on Emily’s frozen form is more than enough to fill in the blanks.

Billie raises an eyebrow; their complexion alone should be more than enough to rule out a familial relationship between them, and she’s about to tell the Royal Protector as such when Daud says simply: “Yes.”

He doesn’t allow Corvo a chance to respond, turning his attention toward the marble form of Emily Kaldwin instead. Corvo’s focus is instantly back on his daughter, and Billie rapidly blinks away the tears of gratitude that threaten to spill down her cheeks.

Emily regains her senses much more quickly than her father did, and only because Corvo is there to stop her does she not tackle Daud to the floor the instant she realises just who he is. “Emily, don’t! They’re here to help!”

“I can see that,” the young Empress says in a deceptively calm voice, her eyes glued to the gruesome sight of Delilah’s body, which Corvo was not quick enough to block from her view. She draws herself to her full height, eyes flicking from Daud to Billie and back, and commands: “Explain.”

Daud looks at Billie. “Where do we even start?”

Billie knows exactly where. “How about the first time we came across Delilah, a decade and a half ago?”

“That’s not – they don’t need to know that,” Daud mutters, embarrassed, because Void forbid the Empress and her Protector ever find out about the service he did them.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Emily says sharply, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Tell us.”

Daud sighs heavily, resigns himself to his fate, and begins telling the tall tale of their first encounter with the Brigmore coven.

“Fifteen years ago, the Outsider came to me and presented me with a name: ‘Delilah’. A mystery I could not abide.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Outsider voice* And so it was that the witch Delilah was defeated and the rightful Empress retook her throne, thanks in no small part to the ex-assassin Daud and his greatest apprentice, Billie Lurk.
> 
> The end is neigh! There will be more chapter to wrap up some loose ends and then we're done! I hope you enjoyed this actiony chapter and I'll see you soon for the home stretch <3


	11. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to apologize for the ridiculously long wait on this. The past month has been a very difficult time for me. My grandmother passed away. I am very much at peace with it, as it was simply her time, but I've had very little time or inspiration for writing while all this was going on. I hope you can forgive me.
> 
> However, all that said, I am back with the final chapter of this little project of mine and I'm really proud to say I've actually finished a multi-chapter story (it's not even 30k words but still)! I want to thank everyone who's left kudos and/or commented on this fic, you guys are awesome!
> 
> Please enjoy this last chapter!

The funeral is a lovely affair.

It’s sad, of course, and Billie isn’t ashamed to admit she sheds a tear or two (among others), but it’s lovely nonetheless. Small, low-key, with only those who truly cared for him as a man rather than a myth in attendance. They came from all across the Isles, none of the invitees even considering refusing a chance to pay their respects to him one last time.

Empress, Royal Protector, Royal Physician and Royal Spymaster sit side by side on the front row, their combined presence alone enough to show what an incredible man he was. Emily doesn’t cry, her face a carefully crafted mask of stone, but Billie knows she will, in private, later. Corvo has his head bowed, his hands balled into fists. He won’t cry, but he will be hitting the new recruits much harder during training for a while. Toksvig is weeping openly, as he has been since they received the invitations to the burial a week prior. One of the books that was part of his inheritance is clutched tightly to his chest, like it’s the only anchor keeping him from falling into the Void himself.

Billie also inherited from him, though she has no idea what to do with it. Her greatest and final reminder of him is the portrait she’s proudly displayed in her office in Dunwall Tower, bold lines forming the picture of Daud’s aged but sharp features, and that’s all she needs. She has made her peace, and hopes he will find his own in the Void. Perhaps the Outsider will even be gracious enough to finally grant him an audience after all these years. He has earned that much.

When the ceremony is over, Billie is one of the first to leave, having no interest in staying behind to talk with the others. She is best left alone with her grief. Besides, the docks aren’t far, and she’ll have to decide what she wants to do with her bequest before they set sail for Gristol on the morrow, bright and early. The Empress and the entirety of her inner court can’t stay away from Dunwall too long; Emily had to spend days delegating their responsibilities just so they could be here for the one nychthemeron.

It’s cold, dark and miserable outside, the Month of Ice certainly living up to its name. There’s hardly anyone insane enough to leave the warmth of their house, and a quick glance around proves no one is watching Billie. She transverses up onto the closest rooftop after a brief hesitation, knowing she cannot get caught using the Outsider’s gifts in public. It would destroy her public image as Emily Kaldwin’s Royal Spymaster, and severely damage the Empress’ standing with the Abbey in the process. But Billie has little time to spare, and damn it if letting out some of her energy doesn’t help clear her head.

If push comes to shove, she can always deny any and all allegations against her. It isn’t as though the Mark of the Outsider adorns her hand.

The light of day is fading fast by the time she arrives at the docks, but she doesn’t need the sun to shine upon the plethora of ships in the harbour to find the one she’s looking for. She knows it by heart, the little boat that is dwarfed by nearly every other vessel in sight and yet was her whole existence not five years ago. It feels like a lifetime away now.

She wanders the halls of the _Dreadful Wale_ absentmindedly, the ship feeling familiar and foreign all at the same time. Everything is almost exactly as she left it. The map of the Isles on the wall by the bed that was hers, the few reagent bottles Hypatia left behind in the spare room, the thankfully empty tank that once contained bloodflies in the room furthest back, the Serkonan guitar left behind by the musician whose voice had reminded her of Daud’s every time he spoke. The wanted posters of Billie Lurk and Daud, the old Whaler mask and the audiograph players in the tiny office she’d used to hide away all the secrets she could not discard. The boat is precisely as it was in her memories, but it is the first time she’s set foot on her ship as Billie Lurk, and that makes all the difference.

It’s just a ship now.

When she returns to the deck, Daud is leaning against the stern, smoking a cigarette. Billie hasn’t seen him smoke since the last time they were together on the deck of this ship, the night they left Karnaca behind.

“Where’d you get the smokes?” she asks, accepting the cigarette he wordlessly passes her.

“Confiscated them from Andrei,” he grumbles. “Smoking in the doorway to a place of faith. Disgraceful.”

Billie snorts, because they both know they’ve done much worse to the Abbey. Feeding a Vice Overseer useless intel to gain information on how to break into a man’s house and nabbing a confiscated bone charm in the process, for example.

She struggles to light the match, the fingers of her right hand cramping up in the cold again. Her right arm never properly healed after the whole ordeal with Delilah, and though she has retained nearly full use of its functions, cold still makes her scar ache and her nerves tremble. Tyvia in the Month of Ice has been an especially pleasant experience.

Daud pries the matchbox from her shaking fingers and pockets it, instead lighting her cigarette with his own. She takes a long, grateful drag, the burning sensation in her lungs spreading its warmth throughout her body. Still, she plucks the smoke from her lips with her left hand, just to be safe.

She exhales, attempting to blow the smoke in the shape of a ring and failing miserably. “Did Andrei have anything to report?”

“Nothing interesting,” Daud says, flicking his cigarette butt into the icy water below. “There’s still some unrest among the Presidium, but the High Judges have things in check. I left his report in your cabin. Dimitri’s too.”

“Great, some light reading for the journey home,” she mutters sardonically. “Sometimes I understand why Burrows went batshit crazy. This job is murderous.”

He snorts, lighting himself another cigarette. “Don’t be melodramatic. You live for espionage.”

That is true. Even as a Whaler, Billie loved covert missions more than any other. When she was appointed Royal Spymaster, she quickly discovered that hadn’t changed one bit. “I do hate the paperwork, though.”

“I handle most of that.”

He does. She has the fancy office with the shiny desk, but Daud is the one bent over a stack of papers most nights, squinting at the words until he finally puts on the glasses Billie gave him despite his insistence that he doesn’t need them. He does it all in the small room he’s been given as an employee of the Crown, under the watchful eye of his younger self hanging on his wall. Some would call it vanity, sharing a room with a portrait of oneself, but Billie knows better. He’s kept the portrait only to remind him of the person he once was, the person he doesn’t want to be anymore.

“Emily should have made you Royal Spymaster,” she says, and not for the first time.

He sighs. “She couldn’t. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Inviting the Knife of Dunwall into your inner court doesn’t exactly convey a message of trustworthiness to the people of the Empire, and Emily had a lot to make up for after the coup. Hiring another Serkonan wouldn’t sit well with many of the nobles either. And maybe, probably, Emily did not want to look at the man who murdered her mother before her eyes during every council meeting she had to sit through. In contrast, Billie’s name had faded from the minds of most, she was Gristolian, and she was most likely the best damn spy in the Isles, especially after regaining her Void powers. It was a logical choice. It made sense.

But it still feels wrong, in the same way as taking the lead when the Outsider gave her his timepiece felt wrong. Billie should not outrank Daud. She should be important, sure, and she should be respected and obeyed by many, but she should not outrank Daud. That’s a lesson she learned an infinite times over after her first tango with Delilah some twenty years ago, and she’ll never forget it.

If she does, the large number of former Whalers in her ranks will help her remember, she’s sure.

The day Daud decided to renew the Arcane Bond for all those who had remained loyal to him after the Overseer’s attack on their base in Rudshore is a day Billie will never forget. He’d expected a handful of them to come to him when they felt the tug of the Bond, a dozen at most. That number was reached within the day alone, and more poured in throughout the week from all corners of the Isles. When asked to work for the Crown under the Royal Spymaster, all but two of them agreed, a solid three dozen men.

It had been quite a task for Daud to explain why Billie was at his side again, and worse, why she had been given the title of Royal Spymaster rather than him. It had taken a depressingly long time before she regained some sense of trust from her former brothers-in-arms, and even now Billie knows there are still some who are weary of her. That’s fine, though. She will reap what she sowed.

All the same, it felt good to be reunited with the people she considered – still considers – family. Thomas, who was the first to answer Daud’s call, who accepted Billie’s presence immediately, who fell into his old role as Daud’s faithful shadow without a second thought. Rinaldo, who declined the Outsider’s gifts after having gone through the whole ordeal with Galia and Zhukov but chose to stay anyway. Kent, who quickly turned into their bridge between the Whalers and the Natural Philosophers by forming a vast friendship with Toksvig, the two of them often  discussing ridiculously intricate topics no one else could make heads or tails of. Misha, who left her comfortable life, well-paying job and loving husband behind to rejoin the gang. Rulfio, who gave her an hour-long lecture filled with a plethora of colourful words on the importance of family and then proceeded to hug the life out of her. So many Whalers who still considered Daud their Master, whose loyalty to the Old Knife went beyond assassination and coin.

Since nearly all those on the Spymaster’s payroll owe their allegiance to Daud, Billie has Daud leading the network of spies (who still insist on being called ‘Whalers’ even though they don’t wear their trademark masks anymore), dispatching them across the Isles as he sees fit. Daud also took to filling in the majority of the paperwork, sans those that explicitly require the Royal Spymaster’s own signature, once it became apparent that Billie despised that part of her job with a passion. She never even had to ask.

On her part, Billie attends meetings and sessions of parliament, arguing with thick-headed nobles, zealous Overseers and occasionally Emily herself on matters related to security. On top of that, she’s taken it upon herself to lead the more high profile jobs, collects the intel that must be delivered to the Crown to keep the Empire stable.

In a sense, they’re two halves of one properly functioning Spymaster.

“Stop brooding, Lurk,” Daud pulls her from her thoughts. “You’ll get wrinkles.”

“I already have wrinkles, thank you for rubbing that in,” Billie returns moodily, “and I’m not brooding.”

“Of course you’re not,” he says in a tone normally reserved for placating a two-year old who’s just been told they can’t have ice cream for dinner.

Her brow furrows even further, no doubt adding to the lines of her face – honestly, she’s over forty, _of course_ she has wrinkles – and she snatches the half-finished cigarette from Daud’s fingers, claiming it as her own.

Unperturbed, Daud shakes another from the pack – Andrei’s going to be pissed, but they’ll be on their way back to Dunwall by sunrise anyway. “So, what are you going to do with your… inheritance?”

She almost forgot. Up on the deck of her old ship, smoking for the first time in years, talking with Daud, it feels like that day five years ago, when they set sail for Dunwall, when she talked to Anton for the very last time. She can almost hear the old coot stumbling about below deck, muttering to himself and tinkering with some useless invention that may or may not contain an integral piece of machinery from the _Wale_ ’s underbelly. Almost.

“I don’t know,” she admits quietly, looking up at the heavens to focus herself. The strange green lights in the night sky are a good reminder that they’re in Tyvia instead of Serkonos. “I don’t need a ship. I don’t _want_ it.”

Her hand closes around the Outsider’s timepiece in her breast pocket, a useless trinket there where time flows normally, but one she’s kept close all the same. She didn’t want that, either.

“You could sell it,” Daud offers. “It’s in pretty good shape, should fetch you twenty coin or so.”

Billie punches his upper arm. “Shut up.”

“Ah, you’re right. It’s fifteen, because of the stupid name.”

“Watch it, old man.”

He barks a laugh. “You really could sell it, though.”

“No,” she says decisively. “I know this ship. She’ll come back to haunt me, I’m sure.”

Daud raises an eyebrow “‘She’?”

“Shut up.”

He does, thankfully, and Billie runs her hand along the slightly rusted railing of her ship, breathing in the familiar sent of floor wax and old wood. Clear as day she remembers when she first bought the dingy little thing from a man who was far too twitchy and sold it to her far too cheap for her to believe their transaction was entirely legal. She remembers spending all night sanding off the old name of the boat, some corny women’s name she didn’t care to commit to memory. She remembers sailing her _Dreadful Wale_ , once it was named as such, across the Isles for years, the only time she stayed on land for more than a week the three months she spent in Tyvia during winter, when she’d made the mistake of docking her ship in a small harbour that iced over overnight. She remembers picking up the occasional passenger to earn some extra coin, always keeping her distance from them until Anton came aboard, that wonderful old coot whom she couldn’t help but love and hate at the same time.

She’ll miss him.

“I know what I have to do.”

She marches back below deck with a purpose, heading for the mess hall where she knows Anton kept his art supplies. Sure enough, there are still some forgotten brushes and tubes of cheap paint around, as well as numerous bottles of turpentine, which he always had her buy but hardly ever needed to use. She complained to him about it on at least a dozen different occasions, but she always ended up bringing it anyway.

She wonders if he somehow knew she would want to do this one day, and left it all behind for her on purpose.

The bottles are frail and break easily, the released turpentine swiftly seeping into the wooden parts of the _Wale_. Daud watches with interest when she returns on deck, lugging the last half dozen bottles with her. He wordlessly accepts the two she passes him and smashes them against the stern while Billie lobs hers across the deck.

They share the last smoke of the pack, Andrei be damned, and when Billie’s fingers start to tremble again, she lets it fall.

They’re up on the nearest rooftop before the cigarette hits the deck, and together they watch in silence as the _Dreadful Wale_ is engulfed in flames, bathing the harbour in light and warmth. It isn’t long before people notice the commotion and try to quench the fire, but Billie knows they’ll be too late. The ship – Anton’s ship – will not survive.

She stares at the inferno and allows herself a single tear.

“Goodbye, Anton.”

They sit on the edge of the roof for at least an hour, silently watching as the fire slowly dies down from the efforts of a handful locals trying to extinguish the flames. When it’s out, and the firefighters have returned to their homes, Daud lays a hand on her shoulder.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” she says, and she’s not even lying. “Let’s go back.”

It’ll be an early morning, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! I can hardly believe it's done, I don't think I've ever actually finished a fic over three chapters before (and I'm seriously way too proud of myself right now). Huzzah!
> 
> This story started out as a shameless way to bring some Daud into Dishonored 2, but as I wrote it, it really became Meagan/Billie's story more than anything. I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I've enjoyed writing it, and I also hope to see you all at my next fic!
> 
> Oh, and have ya'll seen E3?! Who else is seriously excited for Dishonored: Death of the Outsider?! We get Badass Billie and Daud and they'll be together and I'm just so happy!!! Thank you Arkane, I love you so much!
> 
> Also I now have a [tumblr](https://exultedshores.tumblr.com/) account which is very empty right now because I'm still figuring some things out, but if you want to hit me up there's the place to do it!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read, you are all awesome and I love you! <3


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